


It Ain't Me

by SophieRosina



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angry Frank Castle, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fuckbuddies, Kinda, Mild Kink, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Violent Sex, You Have An Understanding, it's a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12102897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieRosina/pseuds/SophieRosina
Summary: He throws a twenty on the table, adjusts his ball cap, and that’s when you finally see his face clearly enough to recognize him.Huh.The Punisher takes his coffee black and has an asbestos mouth.You probably should’ve guessed that.When The Punisher becomes a regular at your favorite diner, the last thing you expect is for things to turn out the way they do.





	1. Firsts

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a break from my other fics as they were getting too heavy and I was paying the price in the form of bad brain days, and so this baby was born!
> 
> It will be a multi-parter, if you want it to be, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Let me know in the comments xx

_I don't want to know where you've been or where you're going,_

_but I know I won't be home_   _and you'll be on your own._

 

You first see The Punisher on a Monday.

You’ve heard about him before, of course – who hasn’t? – but haven’t had a face to put with the moniker until now.

Buzzcut. Orange jumpsuit. Bruised face.

He looks like he’s been through Hell and somehow won.

You roll your eyes at the condemning headline above his photo.

You aren’t a lawyer – your shitty apartment can attest to that – but regardless of how very fucking illegal his actions are, they really ought to give the guy some credit.

Gun-happy serial killer or not, at least he gets shit done.

You turn the page and ignore the rest of the story. 

* * *

You first see him in the flesh on a rainy Friday night a few weeks later.

You’re sitting in a dingy diner near the corner of 51st and 10th, nursing a semi-cold cup of coffee when he walks in.

It’s pouring down outside and has been for a while, so the dim lighting in the place makes it hard to see his face at first.

He’s got a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes and isn't really looking at anyone, so you avert your eyes back down to your book and take another sip of your bitter drink.

Nobody ever comes in here for idle chit chat.

They don’t come here to be stared at, either.

A few moments later, you hear him take a seat at one of the booths in front of you, in the far corner near the fire exit.

The waitress approaches a few seconds after that, and it’s his _voice_ that makes you glance up from the tragedy of Robbie and Cecilia.

It’s so low, so gruff, that it sounds like his vocal chords have been sand-blasted.

But then he mutters a _‘thank you, ma’am’_ as she pours him the steaming cup of the coffee he asked for and you have to hide your smile with your hand.

Manners.

You don’t see much of those around here.

He adjusts his ball cap, looks out the window, then brings the steaming cup to his lips.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Asbestos mouth.

That’s what your mom always called it.

You look down at your book and lose yourself in Ian McEwan’s world for a while.

He’s gone by the time you finally finish your coffee.

* * *

The second time you see him, it’s a Thursday.

You’re at the same diner, at same time of night, but it’s him who arrives first.

You clock him the moment you walk through the door.

Corner booth, nearest the fire exit.

Ball cap on his head and steaming mug at his lips.

You shrug off your jacket and sit in your usual booth, side on to him instead of facing him this time.

You don’t want to risk staring again.

In record time, Nancy comes over to you with a fresh pot and a smile.

“It’s not my birthday yet,” you joke as she pours you an almost-scalding cup of the good stuff.

The place is never busy enough to warrant a fresh pot this late in the evening; you’ve grown used to only having once-hot coffee from here. It’s part of the appeal.

Nancy simply tips her head in corner-booth-guy’s direction. “Ran out.”

“Damn,” you mutter, surprised. Corner-booth-guy must’ve drunk a _lot_ of coffee.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Nancy reminds you, though you both know exactly what you’ll be ordering in half an hour’s time when your stomach starts to rumble.

Creature of habit, you.

Not that you really have anywhere else to go even if you wanted to.

Your landlord’s still not fixed the heating properly, and sitting on your ratty old couch wearing extra layers doesn’t quite cut it. Even sitting on your ratty old couch when the heating _was_ working had exactly _zero_ appeal.

The only time your neighbors aren’t screaming at each other is when they’re fucking each other against the wall. Unfortunately, that wall just happens to be the one between your apartments, and it stays thin full time. Any noise can travel easily through that fucking thing, especially at _that_ volume.

Lucky you.

For the sake of your ears and your soul, you settle in with Robbie and Cecilia, and somehow still manage to let your coffee go cold even with the temperature boost courtesy of corner-booth-guy.

You mutter a curse under your breath as you gulp down the lukewarm liquid, then smile when Nancy comes over to refill your cup.

She does the same for corner-booth-guy, and you decide to try out his superior coffee-drinking tactic by taking a gulp right away.

You burn your tongue.

He doesn’t.

Five minutes later, he finishes his cup and you still can’t feel your mouth, which is probably why you notice when he gets up to leave instead of staying oblivious this time.

He throws a twenty on the table, adjusts his ball cap, and that’s when you finally see his face clearly enough to recognize him.

Huh.

The Punisher takes his coffee black and has an asbestos mouth.

You probably should’ve guessed that.

* * *

You finally talk to The Punisher on a Saturday.

It’s almost midnight when you walk in, flustered and soaked through.

You’re at the diner – of course you are, where else would you be – but you rarely get here so late, and even Nancy seems surprised to see you.

You smile at her when she starts to pour you a cup of coffee at the counter instead of letting you head to your booth first, murmur your thanks, then turn to your left as you wait.

Oh.

That’s why she started pouring early.

A couple has taken your spot.

They must be new.

You absently take a step closer the counter as Nancy finishes filling your cup – it’s the same one she always gives you, with a tiny chip in the handle – then glance over at The Punisher.

He’s sat with his ball cap pulled low, as always, but if anything, that makes you frown instead of feel reassured.

Call it an atmosphere, a vibe, an instinct, whatever… you know something’s not quite right.

The way the blonde half of the couple that has stolen your spot is shifting uncomfortably in her seat tells you why.

Unlike the regulars here, who keep to themselves, these two have taken too much of an interest in the man in the corner and are about three seconds away from putting two and two together, if they haven’t already.

You don’t hesitate.

Taking your too-hot cup by the chipped handle, you head straight for that corner booth, making sure to huff your breaths and bustle right past the oh-so-curious couple.

“Sorry I’m late,” you rush out as you slide into the seat opposite The Punisher – holy fuck, it’s definitely him, how did you not notice that first night? – and place your cup down with a clunk on the table between you. “This rain’s a fucking nightmare – Jonah kept me late _again_.”

He stares at you. Blinks.

You lean closer and tip your head back a little, giving him a pointed look.

“I did manage to ask Angie about dropping us off at the airport on Sunday, though,” you lie, letting your voice raise _just_ a little so Romeo and Juliet can hear you and hopefully calm the Hell down. “She said she’ll be able to pick us up from home, so I’ll drop Harvey off at my mom’s and you can finish up packing once you get back from work, if that’s okay?”

His brow is furrowed when he tilts his head up to look you in the eyes.

His are dark, like the bruises that circle them, but not unkind.

You hold his gaze.

He gets the message.

“Great!” You breathe a sigh of relief, then manage to muster up the most flirtatious tone you can as you say, “So, _Mr. Turner…_ as the soon-to-be _Mrs._ Turner, I’ve been thinking about our honeymoon, and...”

If anyone ever asks you why you do it, you won’t be able to answer them, but you ramble on for at least ten minutes, talking about everything and nothing while he shoots constant glances over your shoulder at the now not-so-curious couple behind you.

He grunts the occasional acknowledgement here and there, but that’s all you get out of him.

It's okay – you didn't expect him to do the talking.

You're fine simply covering his ass and drinking your coffee while it's still hot, for once.

Nancy comes over to refill his cup, but you cover the top of yours with your hand when she goes to do the same for you.

“I’m good, thanks, Nancy,” you tell her, smiling gratefully.

She glances behind you, then catches your eye and winks.

Yep, she knows who he is, too.

Like you, she doesn’t give a fuck.

She moves away and you hear her offer to refill Romeo and Juliet’s cups for them.

They decline.

_Good._

That means they’ll be leaving soon.

You babble on for a few more minutes, watching him drink his coffee down, down, down.

With that amount of caffeine in their system, does a man like The Punisher sleep?

You mull it over as Romeo and Juliet finally get up to leave.

You’re still talking to him, just in case they linger, but your focus is on his eyes.

The way they stare. Assess. Monitor.

No, you realize.

The Punisher doesn’t drink to keep himself awake.

After what he’s seen, what he’s been through?

He does it to stop himself from sleeping.

From dreaming.

The moment Romeo and Juliet walk past the window The Punisher keeps staring out of, you throw a five on the table, get up, and leave him in peace.

It’s the least you can do.

* * *

He returns the favor on a Sunday.

Romeo and Juliet don’t show up again, but he avoids the diner for a while anyway.

A near-miss like that isn’t something he can afford, not with how his face has been plastered all over the papers and news like it has.

He’s recognizable by his bruises alone, now.

You head straight to the bathroom when you arrive, blotting away tears born from stress and frustration – _god damn it_ you know better than to let assholes from work get to you like this – so by the time you emerge with a drier face and splotchy cheeks, he’s already on his way out.

The bell above the door chimes as he leaves, and seconds later you find a steaming cup of coffee and a crumpled five to pay for it waiting for you at your table.

For the first time that day, you smile.

* * *

 The Punisher talks to you for the first time on a Tuesday.

You don’t even realize he hasn’t actually said a word to you yet until much later, but the events of the night go so quickly you decide to let yourself off for that.

It starts several days earlier, when he’s not at the diner, with a pair of men you immediately don’t like and give you the creeps every time you see them.

They’re stocky, but not in-your-face intimidating, and that makes them dangerous. It would be easy to dismiss them as two faces in the crowd.

Something about them gets your defenses up, so every night they’re there you sit facing them instead of the corner booth, keeping them in sight at all times and you find yourself leaving earlier than usual with your hand in your purse and your fingers wrapped around the knife you’ve taken to carrying ever since you moved to New York, just to be safe.

You feel silly every time you make it home without incident, but tonight you realize how justified you are to worry.

They’re sitting in your booth.

They know it’s yours – they stare at you constantly when you sit there – and the proof is in the smirks they send your way when you walk through the door.

Part of you feels like smirking right back.

They haven’t noticed The Punisher yet.

You have.

You turn away from them and approach the counter, calmly asking Nancy for a club sandwich and a glass of soda as you take your seat close to the door.

You want to be able to leave without having to walk past them first.

Sitting side on to them means they’re out of sight, but they’re not out of mind. You stay aware of them as you slowly eat your sandwich, pretending to read the book you’ve already finished, then wipe your mouth with the corner of a napkin when you’re done.

Once you finish your soda, you consider staying for coffee, but decide you’re best off just heading home.

Even with The Punisher there, you can’t relax properly while those men are staring at you like wolves hungry for a piece of meat.

You wait until Thing One leaves and Thing Two goes to the bathroom, give Nancy a twenty to cover the bill and a little extra, then gather your things and leave.

You haven’t got your purse with you this time, so you keep the book in one hand and shove the other into your pocket, holding the knife by default.

It’s a good thing too, because you hear the bell chime above the diner door a few seconds after you leave, and you don’t need to look behind you to know it’s Thing Two.

You increase your pace ever so slightly, but it’s not enough.

Thing One’s hands shoot out from a back alley and drag you into the darkness, with Thing Two close behind.

You scream ‘ _bomb’_ because nobody ever pays attention to cries for help round here anymore and thrust your blade back into Thing One’s thigh, making him bellow in pain and drop you on your ass.

Your book falls to the ground, but you barely notice in the rush to get back on your fucking feet and strike out at Thing Two before he can grab you. He dodges your swipes and laughs when you kick at him instead, and then Thing One is rushing at you in a rage and you barely have time to think before they’re both on you at once.

They land their hits, but you catch them with your blade and a boot to the face before they can overpower you completely. You didn’t wear a skirt tonight for a reason. Thing One knocks your knife from your hand and wraps his fingers around your throat, so you press your thumbnails into his eyes and dig in as hard as you can.

He screams in agony as black splotches swim in your vision and your lungs start to protest the lack of air, distracting you from the sudden absence of Thing Two until _red_ sprays across your face in a stream and Thing One drops dead on top of you.

Gasping for air, you push yourself up on your elbows and gawk at the scene in front of you.

Thing Two is dead.

 _Dead_ dead.

They both are.

You grunt as you haul yourself out from under Thing One’s corpse, heart pounding and adrenaline pumping, then gratefully take The Punisher's hand and let him pull you to your feet.

“I had it,” you pant as you stare up into his eyes.

His reply is low and rough, but it makes you smile anyway.

“I know, Ma’am.”

Thing Two’s blood is smeared on his cheek.

You wipe it away with your thumb.

* * *

You don’t make it to your bed.

You don’t even make it within a three-block radius of your apartment.

The Punisher fucks you right there, right then, against the wall of that alley.

His hands are rough, urgent, in your hair and tugging your clothes until he loses patience and hoists you up by your hips with strength that should scare you.

It doesn't.

Your back scrapes against brick and your nails dig into his shoulders under his jacket, then the nape of his neck. Grasping. Scratching. But not clinging on.

He won't drop you – his hips are pressing too tight against yours for that– it just feels so fucking good to mark him that you can't help yourself.

You've never imagined fucking him before, but if you had, you’re sure you wouldn't have done this justice.

His teeth latch on to your throat, your jaw, your ear, and it hurts as much as it sets you on fire, but you want more, need more, and you're determined to get it.

You hook your ankles behind his hips and pull him even closer. Grind against him. Rut.

He growls and shoves you harder into the brickwork, pins your wrists above your head with bruising force and _rolls,_ but it isn't enough.

You arch your back to get closer, but all you get for your efforts is a sharp nip to your jugular that makes your head thump against the wall.

You groan.

He lifts his head to look at you, breaths coming out as pants against your mouth. It's the closest his lips get to yours.

You stare at him and raise an eyebrow in silent challenge.

You're okay.

Is he?

He lets go of one of your wrists and curls his fingers around your throat.

He is.

Your eyes flutter closed and you press into the hold, daring him to go for it.

He lets out a dark chuckle, tightening his grip.

You wonder how many people he's killed this way.

A moan escapes you, squeezed out of your lungs by his hand, and you open your eyes to find him staring intently at your pulse.

You tug at his barely-grown hair, smirk at the grunt it coaxes from him, then put him back to work.

As he sucks a throbbing bruise into your skin, you drop your legs down just enough to use his solid calf as leverage to slip your boot off. It'll only get in the way.

He shoves hurriedly at your jeans, barely letting you get one leg free before all but throwing you up higher against the wall and hooking his elbows under your knees, spreading you open, open, open.

You barely have time to undo his pants before he's thrusting his way inside you so hard that it burns.

He doesn't pause, doesn't wait, just _unleashes_ it all on you at once.

You take it like a champ.

It’s dirty and it's raw, and it's fueled by the adrenaline that’s still coursing through you both and the unspent aggression from the fight.

No emotion. Just instinct.

It's exactly what you need.

You don't last long.

Neither does he.

You let your head tip back against the bricks and try to remember how to breathe as he drops his forehead to your shoulder and does the same.

He’s still holding you up by brute force alone, unwavering and resolute, but your hips are aching and neither of you can afford to linger so you press your cheek to his temple and pat his shoulder, signalling for him to put you down.

He does so carefully and you grip his shoulder for balance as he pulls your jeans back up and you wiggle your foot back into your boot.

He does up his pants, then bends over to pick up your book, which has somehow been spared from the growing puddle of dark red that's spread from Thing One's corpse.

He offers it to you along with the knife he'd borrowed to stab Thing Two and slit the other's throat.

You pocket the knife but chuck the book in the nearby dumpster on top of the bodies you helped him create.

_Atonement._

Even The Punisher finds humor in that.

It’s not until you’re back at your apartment listening to your neighbors fuck each other through that god damn wall that you realize it’s now officially Wednesday.

Well.

Happy hump day to you.


	2. B.A.U.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos!
> 
> I hope you all like this one as well - let me know!
> 
> Soph xx

You return to the scene of the crime less than a day later.

You’re wearing a scarf around your neck and arrive at the diner early enough to get a fresh pot _and_ the last slice of apple pie for the first time ever, but those are the only things that are different about your visit.

Not showing up would draw questions you don’t want to answer.

You don’t regret what you’ve done, except not being the one to kill Things One and Two yourself – those fuckers deserved it, you can’t be the only one they’d tried to do that to – but any attention would be bad attention, so it was business as usual for you.

Nobody will ever be able to guess you had a man’s blood on your face and The Punisher’s cum inside you just hours before.

The thought makes you press your thighs together as your stomach tightens.

You’d slept well after _that._ Even with your neighbors’ tryst as background noise.

That hadn’t happened in a while.

You bring your hand up to your throat and smile to yourself when the pressure aches.

Fucking The Punisher may have been a one-time thing, but you’ll be replaying it in your head for a while.

Now is not the time to indulge, though, so you push your finished plate forward a few inches and pull your new book from your bag as Nancy comes over to refill your cup.

“Cold, Sweetheart?” she asks, nodding at your covered neck.

“No,” you reply truthfully. “Just trying something new.”

Nancy raises a brow, unconvinced.

You laugh under your breath, then tug the fabric away from your neck just enough for her to catch the dark shadowy marks beneath it and watch her mouth drop.

“Oh, that’s something alright,” she murmurs, letting out a low whistle.

“It was,” you agree coyly as heat starts to build inside you. You can almost feel his hands on you, his teeth, his tongue…

So much for not indulging.

“I can tell,” she teases, then glances up as the bell rings above the door. The smile that crosses her lips a second later is all it takes for you to realize who just walked in. “You two sharing today, I take it?”

You quickly shake your head. That would go down about as well as a mouthless hooker. “Nah, we’re good. Thanks, Nance.”

She doesn’t pry, doesn’t intrude, though you see how her brow furrows as The Punisher takes his usual seat without so much as glancing your way.

You didn’t expect anything less.

When you don’t react to his blatant avoidance of you, she puts two and two together and pats you on the shoulder before heading back to the counter to grab him a clean cup without needing to be asked.

Just like always.

He gruffs out a quick, “Thank you, Ma’am,” when she gives him his half-hourly dose of caffeine and looks up at her, giving you the tiniest glimpse of one of the many scratches you’ve left on his neck.

They extend above the collar of his jacket, blending in with the myriad of other wounds that make him who he is, but you know they’re yours.

You’re proud of that.

So proud, in fact, that you find yourself loosening your scarf just slightly when he does his mandatory visual sweep of the diner before settling in to give him the same pleasure.

His gaze lingers on the skin you expose, then snaps up to meet yours.

There’s a fire in his eyes, one you’re sure matches your own, but as soon as it’s come, he looks out the window and lifts his steaming cup to his lips like nothing’s amiss.

It’s a message you don’t need him to send.

You knew what you signed up for when you fucked him.

You re-adjust your scarf and sink into Sara Gruen’s circus tale, blocking out everything except Jacob and the elephants until the urge to pee gets too much and you have to use the restroom.

He’s gone when you return.

Business as usual indeed.

* * *

You don’t see him again for a while, but that’s okay.

You doubted you would.

He slips to the back of your mind once the Monday from Hell strikes and you get slammed with a project with such a tight deadline, you’ll _still_ have to work to the last second to hand it in even if you don’t sleep for the next three days.

Simon can go fuck himself, thinking he can catch you out with this. Anybody else would have at least three weeks to complete this shit, you know it, he knows it… but you’re not anybody else, are you?

Nope. Not even close.

He doesn’t like you, has been trying to make your life Hell since you turned down his drunken advances at the company’s shit show of a Christmas party three years ago, so it doesn’t surprise you that he’s singling you out like this.

You’ve fucking hated that asshole since day one so figure it’s about time he caught up.

Game on, motherfucker.

* * *

After four days with no sleep and only coffee keeping you upright, your brain is fucked and your body even more so, but the look on Simon’s face when you slam the completed file on his desk ten minutes early that Friday makes the exhaustion more than worth it.

That’s right, asshole.

Nice try.

You leave him to ponder his next scheme to fire you and return to your desk to grab your things before heading out.  If he wants to kick up a fuss about you leaving a minute before five, well… you’re too exhausted to give a fuck.

You stop by the diner on your way home and pass out with your face smooshed into your book.

Still worth it.

* * *

Although you get home from the diner with only an hour’s nap under your belt, you lie awake until four in the morning – God forbid you actually catch on sleep, right? – before giving up and rolling back out of bed again.

This happens sometimes, when you work too hard for too long and can’t switch off, so you decide to tidy your apartment just to rid your limbs of the nagging itch to fucking _do something_.

By half seven, your place looks better than it did when you bought it, which would be impressive if it weren’t so damn small and hadn’t looked so shit when you moved in, but you celebrate anyway by throwing on a hoodie and yoga pants before curling up on your crappy couch for a few hours to unwind.

You get bored once the re-run of _Friends_ you stuck on is over and start switching channels, flicking through bullshit show after bullshit show until you finally settle on watching the news.

You don’t do it often – too much political crap and speculation for your liking – but the news anchor is babbling on about the latest _Punisher_ theory and you find yourself drawn in despite knowing first-hand that what they’re discussing is about as rooted in fact as a children’s book on unicorns.

They’re divided over whether The Punisher isn’t dead after all or if the brutal slaughter – that’s the only word for it; _murder_ doesn’t do what he did to them justice – of three gangsters is a copy-cat vigilante inspired by him instead.

They can’t show photos of the crime scene, obviously, but they do announce just _part_ of the rap sheets belonging to the filth he put down, and that’s what makes it so hard to understand why there’s a debate going on at all.

Not that you ever doubted it, but hearing what those animals had done or been suspected of doing before their deaths makes it impossible to deny The Punisher’s responsible.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen would have sent them to jail, just for them to repeat offend the moment they got out.

The police wouldn't even have caught them.

The Punisher is the only one who would have done the job that thoroughly. That permanently. No half measures or _second_ second chances.

And that’s all that matters; his methods and motive are irrelevant.

So, when they open up the discussion to the public who start condemning the ‘unidentified killer' for his actions, anger flares in your chest, fiery and acrid.

If the callers’ families had been the ones those men had raped, beaten or got hooked on drugs, they'd be praising the man, not declaring him a monster. They'd sleep easier at night and be grateful to him for the privilege.

But their families weren’t the men’s victims, so they don't get it and they never will.

Even if they did, the news channels would refuse to air their opinions.

It isn't fair and it isn't right, but it doesn't change the facts you've known all along.

The world is safer with The Punisher in it.

The media just won't admit it.

You switch off the TV and slam the door on your way out.

* * *

You're in a foul mood through lunchtime and into the afternoon, full of so much tension and pent up frustration that it’s making you feel like you're slowly losing your mind.

You need something to take the edge off, so you head to the gym you have a rarely used pay and go membership with and attempt to work through it by messily beating the shit out of a punch bag, but all that does is bruise your knuckles and piss you off even more.

Sweaty and aching, you trudge back to your shitty apartment with its shitty bathroom and curse everything and everyone when the piece of shit shower head that's been on its way out for weeks finally gives up the ghost and forces you to have a bath instead.

You wake up two hours later with your nostrils dangerously close to inhaling the now-cold, once-warm-and-sudsy water and startle so violently you slosh water all over the damn floor.

Granted, there are worse ways to go, but drowning in your sleep is definitely _not_ on your list of possible ways to lift your mood, so you climb out the tub and somehow manage to avoid slipping on the tiles and cracking your skull open on your way to the bedroom.

You're fucking freezing, so you dry off as quick as you can and layer up with a tank top, comfy sweater, tights and a skirt, then throw on a scarf for good measure before grabbing your purse and heading back out again.

You need some fucking coffee and you need it _now._

* * *

God knows what you must look like by the time you get to the diner, but your face has to be giving _something_ away because moments after you sling yourself down in your booth, Nancy comes over and smiles sympathetically before placing your usual cup and a fresh, full pot on the table and leaving you be for a while.

Even on your crappiest days, she's never done that before.

You're not complaining.

You'd take the stuff by IV right now if it was an option.

Three cups in, your knee is bouncing relentlessly under the table and your skin is crawling with the need to use up the excess energy suddenly coursing through your veins, but that’s the only real change.

Your mood hasn't lifted in the slightest, just morphed from frustration to outright irritation.

You’re not sure which is worse.

After a few more miserable minutes, you head to the restroom to splash your face with water in a pathetic attempt at freshening up and stare at your strung-out reflection in the mirror.

_For fuck’s sake._

You look as shit as you feel.

Instead of crying about it, you scrub your face and shove your head under the hand dryer to fix your semi-air-dried hair, then fluff it up and pat your cheeks to bring some life back to your skin.

And if you take a few moments to regroup and blink back frustrated tears, well, that’s between you and the mirror.

* * *

Someone is sitting in The Punisher’s booth when you finally emerge.

You glare at the back of his head as you approach, and karma pays you back for it just moments later when said intruder gets up to order his food – Nancy is picky about who she waits on – and spills his coffee all over you.

“For fuck’s sake!” you curse as he splutters an apology, grabbing some napkins from the counter and extending a hand to blot at your sweater.

“L-Let me-”

“Fuck off!” you growl, snatching the napkins from his hand before he can grope your chest in the process of ‘helping’, then turn to head back to the restroom again with those tears you denied welling up uncontrollably.

That’s when you notice The Punisher himself is standing at the entrance to the diner, because of course he fucking is, but you can’t bring yourself to give a damn in your haste to get to the restroom and pull your now-scalding sweater off your body before it fucking burns you more than it already has.

By the time you bring yourself to walk back out with your soaked sweater in hand, Clumsy Intruder Prick is waiting anxiously by your booth to apologize once again, and you cuss under your breath.

Your attempt at sending silent _fuck off_ signals clearly fails, for he starts bumbling out another apology before you get a chance to stop him, and it makes you want to punch him in the fucking face.

You manage to resist physical violence, but words rise like acid in your throat and you’re about half a second away from biting his head off when a firm hand presses against your back and a low voice rumbles, “She gets it, Kid. Back off.”

His eyes widen and he all-but-runs back to his stolen corner booth without another word.

_Pussy._

You close your eyes and let out a heavy sigh as you sway back into The Punisher’s touch, then groan when he takes a half step closer so his chest presses against your back.

“Easy, girl.”

The heat that spreads though you counter-acts the tension just long enough for you to catch your breath, and you find yourself heading back to your booth without him having to guide you there.

You take your seat and let your head fall into your hands, only to look up in surprise just seconds later when The Punisher slides in opposite you and pours you both a refill like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You accept the cup he pushes towards you with a strained smile, then feel something loosen in your chest when he sits back against the booth and gazes out the window, his legs stretching out towards you.

He’s the picture of relaxation to an outsider, but you know that something dangerous is coiled beneath the surface, ready to strike the moment it’s needed. It’s fascinating, watching him work.

Because that’s what he’s doing here. Working.

There’s no doubt about that.

As you drink your fourth cup much slower than the first three, your mind actually drifts for a bit, but then your cell phone buzzes and you fumble in your purse to find it, only to immediately get the urge to throw it at the back of Clumsy Intruder Prick’s head once you see what’s lit up the screen.

**_My office. 9AM. Monday._ **

Fucking Simon.

You shove the offending phone and its message back in your purse and down the rest of your coffee as your knee resumes its incessant bouncing and your fingers tap a senseless rhythm against the side of your now empty cup.

The guy just can’t give you a fucking break, can he?

You don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit on a weekday, let alone your days off as well.

You reach forward to pour yourself another refill just to give your hands something to do, but The Punisher’s fingers seize your wrist before yours can so much as touch the handle and his feet clamp around your jittering one, stilling you instantly.

You clench your jaw and exhale a long breath through your nose, forcing yourself to relax, but it’s not enough for him, he wants your full attention, so he tugs on your wrist and you let your gaze snap up to meet his.

“Christ,” he mutters, then shakes his head and adjusts his ball cap. “C’mon.”

Still squeezing your wrist so tightly it’s almost painful, he slides out the booth and dumps a crumpled twenty on the table before pulling you along behind him as he exits the diner.

* * *

He doesn’t say a word as he drives you somewhere secluded, to some forgotten part of the city nobody ever dare disturb, but neither do you.

You don’t need to know where you’re going or why.

It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is the look in his eyes and the buzz under your skin as the tension that’s been building inside you all fucking week _finally_ starts to channel itself somewhere good.

So, _so_ fucking good.

When you finally reach your destination, he cuts the engine and flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, then glances over to you and wets his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

This was meant to be a one-time thing.

A fuck to get it out your system and forget all about it deal.

You look down at his lap, then up to his hands, his lips, his eyes.

God, his _eyes._

They’re hungry.

Dark.

They’re the last things those assholes on the news saw before they died.

Your gaze trails down to his lap once more, to the solution to all your stresses from the week before.

There’s not much room in the driver’s seat.

You bite down on your bottom lip as you look up again.

You can make it work.

He raises an eyebrow in silent challenge.

_Fuck it._


	3. Sex Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and bookmarks!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one... It's getting smutty up in here!
> 
> Don't be shy - say hi! Your comments make my day!

You don’t know who moves first.

One minute you’re in separate seats, the next you’re straddling his lap and his hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, tipping your head back so he can bite at your neck and bring the marks he’d been so thorough to suck into your skin last time right back to the surface again.

You moan into the air and grab at his shoulders, his chest, his hair, anything you can reach, then gasp when he slides the hand that’s not in your hair under your tank top to undo your bra and palms your bare breast.

The callous on his thumb teases your nipple perfectly and you arch your back to push into his touch, seeking more. He gives it to you, rolls your nipple between his fingers and _tugs_ , then drags his lips down to your chest to do the same with his mouth.

_How could you ever have thought that first time would be the last?_

You grind your hips down against him as he bites at the breast not cupped by his palm, desperate for some friction elsewhere. He’s thick and hard below you – you can feel him through the thin layers that separate you – and it makes you _hungry_.

He plants his feet firmly on the floor and bucks up to meet you, once, twice... Your breath catches in your throat.

That.

You need more of _that_.

You slide your trembling hands down his chest as you roll your hips, tracing every hard line of muscle that defines him, then cup the part of him you’re craving most and _squeeze_.

He groans against your chest when you unbuckle the belt of his tactical pants a few seconds later and slip your hand inside, then lifts his head and noses the space behind your ear as he murmurs, “These expensive?”

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s referring to, distracted as you are by the soft-steel of his bare flesh and the feel of his hands running up your thighs, but then his fingers dig in to your flesh through your tights and a shudder ripples through you.

_Fuck._

“No,” you pant, weakly shaking your head. “Not even close.”

The Punisher grins against your skin, then growls, “Good.”

Half a second later, your body jolts as the mesh-like fabric tears in his hands like wet tissue, and then he's tugging your panties to one side and you're pulling him free from his tactical pants and-

Your breath catches in your throat.

_Fuck, he’s thick._

The slick drag-slide of him inside you is bliss, stretches you just right, and, when he bottoms out, you feel yourself spasm around him from the pleasure of it.

His hands flexing against your hips tells you the feeling’s mutual.

“Fuck…”

You brace yourself on his shoulders as you slowly swivel your hips, indulging in the perfect fullness you’ve been missing without even realizing it. It’s _so fucking good_ , so satisfying, so addictive, that you simultaneously want to drag the moment out and keep going.

When you eventually force yourself to look up again, you notice his face is slack and his eyes are focused on the place your bodies are joined. Watching. Taking it in.

He's indulging, too.

Biting down on your bottom lip, you slowly start to rock above him, unable to hold back any longer.

Although he doesn’t look up, he lets you move freely in his hold and find your own rhythm – there's no way you'd be moving if he didn't want you to – but then you get impatient and start to almost bounce instead and his eyes snap up to meet yours.

“Yeah?” he grunts, eyebrow raising as he slides his hands to your ass and squeezes. “Like that, huh?”

Instead of answering, you simply rise up and drop back down hard enough for your thighs to slap his, then grind your hips in a tight circle so your clit rubs against his pubic bone before doing it over and over again.

“That's it,” he murmurs as he sits up a little straighter to give you more resistance to work with. “C'mon, girl, take it.”

You growl under your breath and increase your pace, digging your nails into his broad shoulders for leverage, then inhale sharply when he twists the fingers of one hand into your hair and pulls hard.

Your back arches and he takes full advantage of your new position by closing his lips over your nipple. You don't want to let him distract you, refuse to give up the illusion of control you have, so shove his chest hard enough to force the breath from his lungs when he hits the back of his seat and rise up on your knees so just the tip of him remains inside you.

You lift your hand to his face, fingers tight enough to his skin to tilt his head up, and catch his gaze.

You stay like that for a long moment, just _looking_ at him, then slowly trail your hand down to his throat and let your fingers loosely curl around it.

You’re playing with fire and you both know it, but you don’t care.

You drop your hips down another inch, then rise back up before either of you can really enjoy it and smile when his eyes flare with irritation.

He clenches his jaw. His hips twitch.

You let your fingers close over his neck fully and squeeze ever so slightly just to coax a reaction from him.

His eyelids flutter and his stomach tenses, but he stays in control.

It’s not enough.

So, you take him a little deeper, deliberately contract around his tip, and slowly – so fucking slowly – tighten your hold on his throat until his fingers flex against your scalp and his other hand squeezes your ass again.

_Bingo._

You expect him to tell you to stop, but instead he grits out, “That all you got?”

You growl and push your forearm against his throat, applying barely any pressure at first because he’s the fucking _Punisher_ and you don’t want to get burned, even though he’s made no move to try and stop you so far.

He’s not going to, either.

Instead, he lifts his chin and _lets you_ push harder.

_Holy fuck._

“God damn it, girl,” he growls tightly, voice low and rough, “I said fucking _take_ it.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

A snarl passes your lips jaw you lunge forward to bite his bottom lip, tug on it with your teeth, nip at his jaw, while your arm finally presses against his neck firmly enough to make his breathing stutter.

You smile against his mouth from the satisfaction it gives you but still don’t kiss him – you don’t know why exactly, it just seems to be an unspoken thing between you – then drop your weight down to take his cock as deep as you can without warning.

An honest to God _moan_ escapes him.

So you do it again, and then again, until he grunts and seizes your thighs with both hands to lift you up just enough to let him slide a little lower in his seat. He thrusts his hips up to test the angle, then breathes out a curse as he watches you take a little more of him in and you tighten instinctively around his girth.

He raises you up again but, before he can move you any further, you press _hard_ against his throat with your forearm and pin his wrist to the bottom of the seat with your free hand to stop him trying to control the pace.

He doesn’t resist.

Pride and power surges through you as you start fucking yourself onto him again with more urgency than before, heightened by the way the sharp breath he sucks in is impeded by your forearm, but then it’s your turn to moan when you finally manage to angle him against your g-spot on the downstroke. “ _Oh.”_

“Yeah… yeah, there you go,” he pants, then lets out a breathless, dark chuckle when you move the hand you’ve been pinning back to your ass. “Oh, _now_ you want it, huh?”

You try to glare at him, but then he brings his other hand up to spank you in retaliation and you feel yourself spasm around him hard enough to make him groan.

He squeezes your flesh and tips forward to mouth at your neck, holding your weight in his hands so he can feel you tighten around his tip when he bites at your jaw.

“Fuck!” you whimper, hands scrabbling for purchase as he leans back against the seat and starts to thrust up into you, holding you in place above him so all you can do is-

“Fucking take it...” he growls, then hisses in a breath when your fingers finally dig into his shoulder and thread through what they can of his short hair to ground you. “That's it. C'mon...”

The pace and the power behind his hips is enough to make your mouth fall open and tiny moans escape it like a litany. For him. All for him. You give back what you can, arch and push and tug at his hair, then brace one hand against the roof above you and bring the other down to tease your clit.

“Fuck yes,” he groans, then lifts his gaze from the space between you to catch yours. “Good girl... Good _fuckin’_ girl... Giv't to me... Lemme feel ya.”

You whimper and let your forehead drop to press against his temple as your fingers work double-time to get you to that edge. You're right there, teetering, focusing on nothing but his heavy breaths against your skin, the feel of his hands, his _cock. Him._

“It's comin’,” he grits out, then turns his head so his lips brush against your ear and make you shudder. “It's comin’...”

You nod because he's right – you're close, so's he – and drop your hand from the roof to clutch his shoulder as your legs start to shake from the exertion of holding yourself up despite his help.

“I gotcha,” he murmurs, then noses at the spot below your ear that's always driven you crazy and replaces your fingers on your clit with his thumb. “C’mon, girl...”

That's all it takes.

You cry out wordlessly as your core spasms so hard and so tight for so long it almost hurts, only for the sound to die in your throat when he moves his hand from your ass to your hair and _pulls._

He grunts into your neck as you arch backwards, the sound almost punched from him with the force of his own orgasm, then wraps his other arm around your waist to stop you hitting the steering wheel and holds you tight to him for the comedown.

You're both breathless, panting into the darkness of the cab, but a calm settles over you and find yourself simply closing your eyes instead of climbing off him straight away.

He makes no move to let you go either, just presses his forehead to your shoulder and splays both his hands against your back to keep you comfortable.

It's peaceful. Quiet. The exact opposite of the week you’ve each had.

It almost makes the bullshit worth it.

* * *

When he eventually lifts his head, you ease yourself off him and slide your ruined panties back into place to stop yourself leaking over the seat, then do up your bra as he tucks himself away.

He starts the engine as you clamber back over to your side of the cab but does at least wait for you to buckle your seatbelt before pulling away.

You stare out the window as he drives back to Hell's Kitchen – not to memorize the route; the passing lights just mesmerize you – and smile to yourself when the familiar sight of the diner comes into view.

Of course.

You sit at your booth.

He sits in his.

Business as usual once again.

* * *

It becomes a thing without really being _a thing._

Some nights, he sits alone. Drinks his coffee. Stares out the window. Leaves.

Other nights, you'll find him at your booth instead.

Those nights go one of two ways.

He sits in brooding silence as you read your book until you each go your separate ways.

Or, like tonight, he looks at you and you look at him and you both leave in his truck to find somewhere secluded to fuck.

Sometimes he's bloody.

Sometimes he's not.

Either way, he's usually the headline at the top of the front page of the paper the next morning and the marks on your skin mirror how violent the kill was.

You don’t mind; you kinda like the parallel.

His bruised and bloodied hand reaches around to squeeze your throat, pulling you up so your back is curved almost brutally as he pounds into you from behind.

You brace yourself against the hood of the truck and push back to meet his next thrust.

“Fuck, you’re nasty,” he rumbles into your ear, then spanks your ass and squeezes it roughly as he tightens his hold on your neck. “You gonna take it all?”

Yeah.

Tomorrow’s paper is going to be gruesome.

You hitch your leg up onto the hood to open yourself up to him even more and smirk when he curses under his breath and his rhythm stutters for just a second.

“You got more to give?” you tease. His lips curve up into a half-smile against your neck and the way he snatches one of your hands from the hood to twist it backward between your bodies gives you the answer you’re craving.

He won’t hurt you.

Not without you wanting him to.

You let yourself fold forward more so your cheek is against metal and laugh breathily when he immediately yanks your free arm backwards to join the other and pins your both wrists against the small of your back with enough force to make you ache.

Your bruises are going to be spectacular.

He kisses the spot below your ear and praises how _fucking good_ you are.

It's a thing.

(It's not a _thing)._


	4. Scared to be Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to go somewhere a bit different here, so I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Let me know below - your comments inspire me xx

For something that’s not a _thing,_ the arrangement you have with The Punisher sure as fuck seems to be the one part of your life that isn’t going to shit.

In all fairness, your relationship with your family went to Hell a long time ago, but when the one uncle you still keep in touch with shows up at your door strung out on the drugs he swore he gave up months ago, you curse yourself for ever thinking New York was far enough away to escape their toxic clutches.

Too little, too late.

You can’t turn him away, though you don’t really want to let him stay either. Your apartment is too small, some wounds too deep, but when he breaks down and sobs right there on your doorstep, blubbering about mistakes and pain and misery, you can’t bring yourself to do anything but let him in.

You can survive a few days of extra company.

He won’t survive the next few days without it.

So, as he sleeps off the come-down on your couch, you head to the diner and feel your body almost sag with relief when The Punisher’s stood there, leaning against his truck as you approach.

It’s the best thing you’ve got going for you.

And it’s not even really a _thing._

* * *

You fuck on the backseat, this time.

Your calves are high on his shoulders and your thighs are shaking from the burn, but then his fingers thread through yours so he can pin your hands against the door with one of his own while his other clutches your hip so tight it almost hurts and you can’t focus on anything else but _him._

It’s the closest to naked you’ve ever been; your jeans were discarded the moment he got you on your back, your t-shirt got chucked somewhere alongside his long before that, and your bra straps have been slipping off your shoulders ever since he undid the clasp.

He’s stripped down, too. His tactical pants are slung to his knees like always, but his chest… his bare, scarred chest is on display for the first time and the feel of it against yours when he leans down over you is enough to get you closer to the edge than it ought to.

You’d have your hands all over him if you could.

It’s why he’s holding them so tight; to drive you absolutely fucking crazy.

It’s working.

He dips his head to mark your breasts with the purple blotches you crave so much when he’s gone, then chuckles a little breathlessly when you clench around him in response. “You like that?”

You groan in frustration and roll your hips, making him grunt at the change in angle. “You know I do.”

“Mmm,” he agrees, biting and sucking his way up your neck before he buries his face in your shoulder and mutters something you can’t hear against your skin.

You’re beyond folded in half now, but the slick slide of your bare skin against his like this makes it more than worth it. The closeness. The contact. It’s exactly what you need, and when he picks up the pace, you know he needs it, too.

He slips his hand from your hip to your ass and _lifts_ you to meet his next thrust, unleashing a guttural cry from your throat as his rhythm falters because you’re squeezing him so hard.

“God _damn_ ,” he hisses, then raises his head to look at you with eyes so fiery, they’re almost mesmerizing. “You fuckin’ feel that?”

You nod weakly and watch a look of pure _pleasure_ cross his face when you deliberately do it again.

“Fuck, how you doin’ that shit?” he groans as he hits your g-spot once more, making your fingers tighten around his just to stay grounded. He’s so fucking _good_. “How you still so fuckin’ tight, huh?”

“It’s ‘cause y-you’re so _big…”_ The last word escapes as a breathy moan as your back arches, bringing you flush together. You’re so close, right there, and so is he. “ _Oh…”_

“And you’re fuckin’ tiny,” he rumbles, then sucks in a breath as you start to tighten around him. “ _Shit._ Fuck yeah, you are. So fucking tight, so fuckin’ _good…_ you know that?”

One of your legs drops from his shoulder and he grunts as he wraps it around his waist before leaning in so close, all it would take is the tiniest shift for your lips to touch.

“Don’t stop,” you whimper as he presses his forehead to yours. “Please don’t stop…”

He smiles against your skin. “I ain’t gonna stop. Not for anythin’.”

To prove his point, he hits your spot just right again. Feels you spasm around him in reward.

“There’s my good girl,” he praises, nodding in encouragement. “C’mon… C’mon…”

The fingers between your own squeeze tightly and his other hand plants itself on the backseat right beside your head as he pistons into you so hard, so perfectly, all you can do is moan and moan and _moan…_

Your lips brush his when you finally tip over the edge and bring him right along with you.

Neither one of you notices.

* * *

Surviving _‘a few days’_ turns into battling through a few weeks, and having your uncle crash on your couch starts taking up way more of your time and money than you have to spare, so even though the last thing you want is to be taking up the overtime hours you usually decline at work, that’s exactly what you have to do.

Simon, of course, takes the situation as the opportunity it is and uses it to his full advantage, hauling you in to his office on a weekly basis to set you harder and harder tasks with such tight deadlines, you continually struggle to meet them even with the extra hours under your belt.

_Struggle._ Not fail.

You refuse to let it get to you, just get on with things and keep your chin up, but tonight is one of those nights where you seriously consider packing it all in, telling Simon to stick his job up his ass and kicking your uncle off your fucking couch to crawl back to his wife with his withdrawal-suffering tail between his legs, because there’s _got_ to be more to life than this bullshit.

You growl under your breath as you flick through the piles of paper that surround you while your uncle snores in the background, searching for that one document in that one file that will make this report so much easier to finish…

It’s so damn late, part of you wants to say _fuck it_ , give up searching and go to that diner and lose yourself in The Punisher instead of this shit, but even if you did, you know he won’t be there.

His appearances have been few and far between in the last few weeks since that night in the backseat, but the papers tell you exactly what he’s been up to in his absence.

It’s all puzzle pieces, leading up to something big, and while you could probably solve it if you wanted to, sometimes it’s better to _not_ know the Devil that’s haunting your city. Sometimes, remaining ignorant to the horror is the only way to get out of bed in the morning and not want to cower away in fear.

So, on those rare evenings you do see him, you never ask for the who or what or why or where; instead, you barely talk until he’s balls-deep inside of you, and even then it’s all grunts and moans and teasing.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tonight, though...

Tonight, all you want is to sit in that booth in silence for a while, with him opposite you, and _breathe._

But you don’t.

It’s not _that_ kind of thing.

* * *

Your life goes to Hell a couple of Fridays later.

Simon sets you up with a false meeting time and date and you fall right into the trap, ending up with a disciplinary under your belt before the clock even hits nine-thirty, but that’s nothing compared to the clusterfuck that greets you when you get back home.

“What the fuck?!”

Your uncle is shaking, rummaging through drawers and searching under couch cushions, absolutely fucking _wrecking_ your apartment in the process of whatever the Hell he’s doing.

Your stuff is strewn all over the floor, things are tipped over… and then you spot the white powder on your kitchen counter that explains it all.

“Gotta find it, gotta find it, gotta- gotta find-” he mutters as he searches. “Need to, need to, need to…”

Horrified, you step forward and your bag drops to the floor beside the door as your booted feet crunch on broken glass.

The moment he hears it, he swings around wildly and immediately rushes forward, seizing your wrists in his trembling hands tightly enough to bruise. “Get out. Get out. Get out. Get _out!”_

You stumble backwards with the force of his desperate shoving, then cry out when you hit your head on the coat hook beside your front door.

“No good, no good, no good!” he hisses, nails digging into your skin. “Stay away! Get out!”

Stunned by the hit to the head, you’re easily overpowered, and before you can even process what’s happening, you’re literally thrown on your ass and locked outside your own apartment.

“Hey!” you shout as you scramble to your feet to start pounding on the door. “HEY!”

You hear noises from inside, crashes and banging, but he doesn’t answer you, doesn’t care, and your throat is almost raw by the time you realize how pointless it all is.

Your bag is inside, so’s your cell phone, but even if they weren’t, nobody’s going to help you round here, nobody’s going to give a fuck…

You turn around.

And walk away.

* * *

You don’t go to the diner.

You don’t want Nancy to see the marks on your arms or the blood crusting in your hair.

You don’t want _him_ to see the state you’re in either.

Instead, you go to DeWitt Clinton Park and sit by the memorial, just to clear your head.

You’ve been through this before. More than once.

It’s why you got the Hell away from them all.

But at least they’re still alive to run away from.

Your family is fucked up.

It always has and always will be.

But The Punisher’s family is _dead._

They’re gone.

And they won’t ever come back.

You can.

You can go back.

So you do.

* * *

You don’t bother going to the front door this time.

He won’t answer.

Instead, you haul yourself up the fire escape you never expected to be glad leads right to your apartment, and prise open the window before swinging your legs in and landing with a crunch on more broken glass.

All that follows is silence.

Slowly, so fucking slowly, you gingerly move to flick on the lights and feel tears rush to fill your eyes at the sight before you.

He’s fucked you over.

Completely. Absolutely. Indescribably.

Torn papers. Broken furniture. Smashed plates.

You don’t even need to check the cubbyhole behind your bed to know the money you’ve been saving for months has been found and taken.

Your front door is wide open, swaying in the sudden breeze.

He is long gone.

And he won’t ever come back.

* * *

You don’t sleep.

You retreat to the bathtub and stay there.

There’s no point trying to salvage anything. Not right now.

Maybe not ever.

When the morning comes, you step over the chaos to rescue a pair of pants and a sweater from your floor and go to work.

What other choice do you have?

* * *

The Punisher is in the diner that evening.

You watch him exchange a couple of words with Nancy through the window as she pours him a steaming cup of coffee.

He’s bruised up, tired-looking and moving a little gingerly, but holy fuck do you want him.

You ache with it.

Your chest burns with it.

He’s right fucking there.

It would be so easy to-

You keep on walking with your head ducked low.

* * *

It’s a mistake you come to regret ten minutes later as you stand in your apartment with an armed thug less than six feet away from you, demanding to know where your uncle is.

When you open your mouth to respond, tell him you don’t know, beg for him to let you go, all that escapes is a scream.

* * *

You wake up to darkness.

Pain.

And then the hood that’s been covering your head is removed and the light in your face almost blinds you.

You close your eyes. Grimace.

“Look at me,” a voice orders, but when you struggle to follow its instruction, its owner grasps your chin hard enough to make your jaw scream in pain. “Look. At. Me.”

You blink to try to adjust, then bite back a whimper when you finally focus on his face.

It’s been on the news. In the papers.

He’s part of the puzzle you’ve been trying not to think about.

The Punisher’s puzzle.

“Where’s the Mouse?” he demands to know.

Your mouth opens and closes dumbly, then fills with blood when he backhands you so violently, the chair you’re tied to almost topples.

“Answer me!”

“I don’t-” you spit out liquid metal and heat, trying to stop to world spinning. “I don’t know what you’re-”

Your head is wrenched back by your hair and the muzzle of a gun is forced under your chin.

“You want to try that again?” he spits. “Or shall we just cut the bullshit and skip to the part where you tell me where your piece of shit uncle Mouse is, hmm? I ain’t got all night and your face is too fucking pretty to ruin.”

You can’t help it. Your eyes widen.

_What has he_ done?

The man chuckles darkly and strokes the gun down the side of your face, smirking. “Oh, yes, we know all about _you,_ Baby. He didn’t try to cover his tracks very hard. Led us right to your door.”

Your skin prickles with dread and nausea rises thick and fast up your throat.

“Kinda cruel, when you think about it,” he continues. “Using his own niece as cannon fodder… Oh, Baby, you’d think he doesn’t care about you at _all.”_

You’d never admit it, but the words _hurt._

You know they’re the truth.

The only person anyone in your family ever cares about is themselves.

“He left yesterday,” you whisper, but you know he won’t believe you. You know you’re screwed. “Packed up. Ran.”

“Of course he did, Baby,” he coos, then pouts his bottom lip mockingly. “He knew we were coming.”

And.

Then.

All.

You.

Know.

Is.

Pain.

* * *

When you come to, you’re panting, blood dripping from your slack lips as he wipes his bloodied knuckles on a cloth.

“I gotta hand it to you, Baby,” he praises. “You know how to take a hit.”

You lift your heavy head and try to focus on him through the eye that isn’t swelling shut, that hasn’t got blood threatening to blind it.

“Almost takes the fun outta things, you know?” He looks put out, like you’re the one making _him_ suffer. Like you’re stealing something from him.

He steps forward and you flinch, reading between the lines. “Please d-don’t…”

You’re shaking, from fear or pain, you can’t quite tell. It makes it hard to concentrate.

“Oh, Baby, I’m not that kinda guy,” he coos, crouching down in front of you. “I ain’t gonna touch you like that, that ain’t the kind of fun I want. I just want you to tell me where Mouse is. That’s all.”

Your answer stays the same, but its delivery is stilted, pained. The words are crushed out of lungs whose function has been beaten out of them by well-placed fists, through a jaw which burns and lips that are swollen, by a brain that _will not give in_. “I d-d-don’t… kn-kn-kn- _know!”_

His eyes flash with rage half a second before he gives your chest a brutal shove right over the already-forming bruises he put there, sending you crashing backwards with a wail of agony.

Your head smacks the floor so hard, dark spots make your already compromised vision even worse and you almost throw up.

He moves over you before you can comprehend it, his gun pinning your forehead down as he flicks the safety off.

“Oh, Baby,” he sighs, tilting his head to the side. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

A gunshot drowns out your scream.

Everything.

Blurs.

Into.

One.

The weight moves off you and the man hisses a curse, pushing himself to his feet as more gunfire and shouting echoes from wherever the Hell his guards are.

Your head lolls to one side, eyes glassy and arms protesting your own crushing body weight.

The man runs.

You hear shouts.

Groans of pain.

A shadowy figure appears.

You try to speak, plea, beg.

“Shh, shh, shh.”

The chair is righted.

Your binds are cut.

Gentle arms slide beneath you to cradle you against a chest that’s too lean, too hesitant, not broad enough to be The Punisher’s.

He wouldn’t treat you like you’re something fragile; he knows you better than that.

As you’re carried away from the scene, you squint up at the person who saved you and a harsh, wheezing laugh escapes your battered lips.

“H-Hey, Red.”

No wonder they got away.


	5. Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are absolutely amazing, thank you so very much - you have no idea how much they inspire me!
> 
> I hope you like this one just as much!
> 
> Please let me know :) xx

You lose consciousness more than once on your way to wherever the fuck it is you’re going.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is quick to wake you up every time you do, though.

You barely even need to close your eyes before he instinctively seems to _know_ you’re on the brink and finds a way to bring you back.

Something about concussions and holding on and _almost there_ and _stay with me, I know you’re tired, don’t fall asleep._

What an asshole.

You tell him as much as he takes an uneven step that sends fire up every nerve.

It probably offends him a little.

Oh, well.

You don’t have it in you to care; you hurt _so fucking much_ and your head is spinning like crazy… the only thing you have the capacity to focus on other than the pain is how desperately you need to make sure he doesn’t try and take you to a, “Hos- hosp-”

“No hospitals,” he finishes as you splutter and wheeze in a laboured breath, body protesting every movement. “I know.”

“’Kay,” you relent. “Th’nk’you.”

He huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’re welcome.”

“Y’still’n’sshole, though,” you mumble, right before your head lolls and you pass out yet again.

Always classy, you.

* * *

The ordeal doesn’t end there.

Of course it doesn’t.

The elevator of the apartment building he’s taken you to isn’t working, which doesn’t seem like a big deal until he takes the first step up the stairwell with you still held against his chest.

_No no no stop no good stop please no!_

You squeal in agony as adrenaline makes you jerk into awareness again and fight to get out of his agonizing hold.

“Lemmegolemme _g-go,”_ you plead, instinct overriding logic. _Holy shit, that fucking burns._ “I can’t… I can’t… _please…_ put me-e d-down.”

He does.

Your legs buckle before they even take your full weight.

_Fuck._

He rushes to pick you up again, but you’re quick to hold up a trembling hand.

All the fire and force gets sucked out of your voice by the fuzz in your brain as you croak, _“Don’t.”_

He shakes his head and tries to reason with you, “You’re in bad shape - you need to let me help-”

“Go to H-Hell, Red.” Your filter’s so out of whack, the words get blurted before you can really comprehend how much of a bad idea they are. “Fuck y-you. I ai-ain’t a lil’ k-kid, y-you can’t j-just-… just…”

Your eyes roll upwards and you start to tip back, but then he’s there to prop you up, one arm around your waist as the other keeps yours over his shoulder.

You lean heavily against him, panting for breath with your head ducked low, and he accepts it like you hadn’t just tried to cuss him out for doing nothing but try to help.

_Jesus Christ._

You lower the hand that’s not hanging limply by his shoulder to grip his where it lies at your waist and try to get your shit together.

His skin’s not rough enough, his fingers are too slender, and he’s _way_ too careful in how he’s handling you, but it’s not his fault you’re in this mess.

It’s your piece of shit uncle’s.

_(And yours. You never should have walked past that diner. Past him.)_

You squeeze his hand and slowly lift your foot, finally ready to move. The sooner you start, the sooner this will be over.

“S-Sorry,” you mumble as he helps you take that first step.

“You’re fine,” he replies with a strained smile.

Except you’re not.

You’re _so_ not.

* * *

“Mnnn,” you groan fifteen minutes later, stumbling out of a hold The Punisher would never have let be slack enough for you to do so, then slump against the wall of the stairwell Red’s _still_ slowly trying to get you up.

Acid and bile scorch your lips as you retch and start to crumple, but then he’s there, holding you steady and easing the pressure on your ribs before the pain makes you pass out. Again.

“S-S-shi-it,” you rasp with a wince, then let out a staggered, pained chuckle that ends in you almost hyperventilating when a thought hits you out of nowhere. “H-How d-d… does h--he…” You suck in a disgusting-sounding breath and sway unsteadily. “Dooo…” You pant, gasp, wheeze. “This ev-v-ery n-nni--iight?”

“Who… What are you…” He frowns, then suddenly tilts his head to the side like a fucking puppy when you inhale sharply in pain. _Ouch._ “Do that again.”

“Wh-Wh-” you choke out, then squeal when his hands gingerly cup your rib cage.

“Take a deep breath,” he quickly orders, jaw tense.

You’re too fucked not to obey him, even though it makes you sob in agony.

“Okay,” he murmurs, then carefully moves his hands to a different position before nodding in confirmation. “Good.”

 _“Good?”_ you snap, trying to shoot him a dirty look.

You’d be doing a pretty great job if your eye wasn’t so damn swollen.

The Punisher would be proud.

“It _is_ good,” Daredevil chastises, though it’s weak and lacks authority. The opposite of _his._ “They’re badly bruised and one- no, _two_ – are cracked, but they’re not broken… your lungs aren’t compromised; it’s the pain and shock making you breathe like that.”

“N-No sh-shi—it.”

Your stomach lurches again.

“M’gon’be-”

Sick.

Everywhere.

_God, it burns._

Daredevil’s nose screws up, like he’s overwhelmed by the smell even though your stomach has nothing in it to really expel, but then he collects himself and all but drags you to your feet to get you moving again.

You heave out a sob, shaking from the pain, but when he slows down and starts to hesitate – _pussy_ – you growl under your breath, “Kee-eep f-fuckin’ go-goin’, Red. _Jes-sus.”_

He mutters what you think is a _‘stubborn as Frank’_ before adjusting your abused arm around his shoulders.

You feel a surge of pride at that.

It disappears the moment he gradually starts to get you back up those fucking stairs and you scream out in pain.

_Now who’s the pussy?_

* * *

The Punisher would’ve carried you, you think, as his rival _finally_ helps you lower yourself onto a couch in the top-floor apartment he’s taken you to an absolute _age_ later.

He would have kept you moving, forced you wherever you needed to go by whatever means were necessary, instead of dragging it out like that.

No matter how much you cried and cussed him out for it, he would’ve known you could take it and pushed you through no matter what.

Yeah, you’d be in more pain temporarily, but at least it would have been over quicker.

His cruelness would’ve been kind.

Daredevil’s kindness was cruel.

A sob escapes you as you settle back against the cushions, though it’s not from emotion, you tell yourself, just exhaustion and pain.

You don’t wish he was here.

You don’t.

_(You do.)_

* * *

It takes longer than you care to know, but eventually you manage to stay awake for long enough periods at a time that Daredevil is happy to give you a couple of pain killers to take along with half a bottle of water.

You struggle to open your swollen mouth right, then flinch at the bitter taste which makes it hard for you to force yourself to swallow them down, and him uneasy; you can tell by the way he’s hovering just in front of you almost anxiously.

When you manage to keep them down instead of throwing them straight back up, he lets out a relieved sigh.

So do you.

Now you’ve calmed down enough that the shock of what happened isn’t wreaking havoc on your entire being, your breathing’s evened out a little and you can think a little clearer between fade-outs.

He was right; it was the pain fucking you over so badly rather than anything nefarious.

You won’t tell him that, though.

Somehow, you don’t think you need to.

(Shame he didn’t also think to warn you that the moment pain like that becomes more manageable, exhaustion kicks in in its place, which is just as shitty and makes you feel like you’re wading through concrete.)

You struggle to hand back the bottle to him, then feel a flare of irritation in your chest when he stands there, staring at you like you’re a little kid he’s being made to babysit but doesn’t know what to do with.

“What?” you grumble self-consciously, gingerly wiping away a few spilled droplets with the back of your hand before letting it fall heavily back down onto the couch. Your co-ordination is off, to say the least.

“You sure there’s nobody I can call to help you?” he asks, concern lacing his every word.

You roll your eyes.

Well, try to, anyway.

He’s asked you a hundred times already; your answer isn’t going to suddenly change.

“Yep.”

His fingers curl slightly, like he’s frustrated and still doesn’t believe you.

(He shouldn’t, but that’s not the point.)

You shift uncomfortably.

“Look, I ha-haven’t got anyone lef-ft who gives a sh-shit, okay?” you dismiss with a pained half-shrug as you retreat against the back of the couch. “Nobody’s gonn-gonna answer if you c-all.”

 _He_ would.

That’s why you don’t have his number.

Daredevil considers you for a long moment, then sits down on the coffee table before you, forearms braced on his thighs.

“I have… _someone_ ,” he begins slowly, cautious in a way that makes you wonder if maybe your irritation at him is justified, after all.

_Is this guy for real?_

“G-Good for you, Red,” you sigh, tipping your pounding head back to rest against the couch cushions as you stare up at the ceiling. You’re too damn tired for this. “Congratu-fucking-lations.”

“No, I mean…” He shifts in position, tense and almost unsure. You put him on edge, though you’re not sure why. “I have someone who can stitch you up. Take care of you?”

You laugh and give the ceiling a half-smile.

Altar boy.

“I’ll be fine,” you assure him, not unkindly, “I’ve had w-worse.”

He pauses, but then his face crinkles in a way that tells you he’s frowning under the mask. “You have.”

It’s not a question.

You choose not to answer.

That shit is going to stay in its fucking box, where it belongs.

Almost on cue, you start to yawn, but the stretch splits your lips and turns it into a grimace.

You bring your hand up to touch your mouth.

Your fingertips come away red.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

You can’t go out on the street like this.

Anyone sees you? Any _cops_ catch sight of your face?

They’ll start asking questions you can’t answer, and that’s a risk you _really_ cannot afford to take.

You look up at your knight in red armor again, debating with yourself whether the next words you say are a good idea considering you’ve been a total bitch to him ever since he picked you up off that floor.

_Fuck it._

“You mind if I cr-crash here another hour?” you ask, hating how unsure of yourself you suddenly feel. “I’ll, uh… I’ll g-get outta your, uh…” You gesture at his head. _“Horns_ as soon as I can, I pr-om-ise. I just gotta s-sleep it off a bit first, y’know? Get my head screw-screwed back on straight and all that.”

Daredevil tips his head to the side like a puppy again, like he’s listening intently.

You go to bite down on your bottom lip, only for the movement to send shooting pains through your mouth before you can even sink your teeth in.

The reason for his hesitation is obvious.

He wants to say no.

You don’t blame the guy; you’ve been shitty to him and you know it.

Only trouble is, he’s not got it in him to say so.

“You know what?” you mumble, embarrassed, then start to push yourself upright in preparation to stand, ignoring the agony that makes your nausea return full force. Every bone, every _joint_ feels swollen solid. “I-I’m just go-gonn-a go – I’ve taken up too mu-much of your time al-”

“Go where?” he cuts across.

It’s a genuine question, not a challenge, but it startles you anyway.

“I, uh…” _Can’t go home. Can’t go to the diner. Can’t go to a hotel._ “I’ll figure som-something out.”

It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Listen,” you mutter as your skin crawls with growing anxiety, “I really oughta just-”

He lets out a soft sigh and reaches forward to place his hand on yours, stilling you before you can move another painful inch. “Stay.”

You head bows and your body almost sags in its place from the relief of it.

“There’s a bedroom you can sleep in” he offers, which makes the pressure in your chest loosen ever so slightly. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hating the swell of emotion that seeps through, then turn your hand over so your palm touches his. “For… y’know… everything.”

He nods and carefully helps you to your feet again before slowly – _gently, cautiously, delicately_ – guiding you across the apartment to a minimalistic bedroom with a large bed and dark sheets that feel insanely soft against your fingertips when you reach out to touch them.

“D-Damn, Red,” you murmur, impressed. “These are something.”

He gives you a half smile and replies, “You should sleep easier on these; they won’t aggravate anything sensitive.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” you tease lightly as you turn to slowly sit down on the edge of the bed. You need to tread cautiously, here; he can still kick you out if the wants to. “I thought a guy like you would spend more time throwing punches than receiving them.”

He does that head tip thing again as he says, “You and I both know guys like me and him don’t get off that easy.”

You freeze for a moment, heart jumping in your chest, but force yourself to calm yourself again almost straight away.

There’s no way he can know.

The nickname you’ve adopted for him isn’t exactly original, after all, and there’s nothing else you’ve done to suggest you know The Punisher biblically, as far as you can tell.

After a couple more seconds, Daredevil nods to himself, then takes a step back and heads towards the sliding bedroom door. “Call if you need anything, otherwise I’ll come wake you up in a few hours to give you some more pain killers. You’re going to need them.”

“Thanks, Red,” you reply softly with a pained smile.

You’re asleep before your head even hits the pillow.

* * *

You dream about him.

His hands.

His eyes.

His face.

The images stick in your head even when Daredevil wakes you up to make you swallow some more pills, like they’re burned on your retinas.

It doesn’t mean anything.

You’ll be fine.

You don’t need him to hold your hand through this.

The only thing you _need_ is sleep.

 

 

_(That doesn’t mean you don’t want him to, though… and isn’t that fucking terrifying?)_

* * *

An ear-splitting crash jolts you awake.

The roar of rage which follows it makes you startle.

“Wait! Frank!”

_Oh, holy shit._

Something heavy gets slammed against something solid and your body jerks into motion.

“She better be okay or I swear to fuckin’ God, Red!”

You’re woozy, from sleep or maybe a lack of it, but you just about manage to stagger to the bedroom door to brace yourself against the frame as more crashing and shouting echoes through the apartment, emphasized by grunts of exertion and pain.

You can’t decipher everything they’re shouting at each other, can’t tell how many of the marks on each of them are new, but one thing you understand perfectly is the look on The Punisher’s face as he pins Daredevil high against the wall with a strong forearm against this throat.

Desperation… Worry… A whole myriad of emotions; all of them expressed as pure _rage._

“Always gotta do it your way, huh?” he spits, unaware of anything except the man in front of him. “ _I got this, Frank, I got this_ , yeah? Ain’t that what you said? Huh?” He shakes his head in disgust, low sounds of fury escaping his lips. “You ain’t got _shit_ , Red. You ain’t got a Goddamn clue, you know that?”

“F-Frank,” Red croaks, pushing The Punisher’s forearm instead of fighting back like you know he can.

“You thought you know better than me? How to handle those assholes right, yeah?” he hisses back, all fire and rage and tension and your chest _aches_ with it. “Always think you’re better than me, always the _big hero_ , huh?” It’s almost a snarl. “Lemme tell you somethin’, Red, if she ain’t okay? If they did _anything_ to her-”

“Frank.”

His head snaps round and his jaw clenches at the sight of you framed by the woodwork of the door.

You take a slow half-step forward and try to keep your face free from pain when your ribs twinge so he doesn’t have to carry that weight on his shoulders, too.

His eyes lift to catch on yours.

_Are you…?_

You blink.

_I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m safe._

His brow furrows.

_Are you, though?_

Your lips part.

_I am now._

He’s moving before either of you know it, feet marching him across the apartment as Daredevil sags against the wall, eyes never leaving yours until he’s right there and-

His hands hover an inch from your face as his chest rises and falls rapidly, eyes searching your face, cataloguing every bruise, every scrape, every mark…

You step forward so his fingers make contact with your skin and let your eyes fall shut as he lets out an unsteady breath.

You bring your hands up to his waist and let them curl into the thick fabric of his jacket, fighting the urge to press your body into the safety of his, only for him to sway towards you anyway for just a second before catching himself and straightening up again.

A growl rumbles in his chest as he carefully moves your face from side to side with his hands to inspect it, but then he lifts his fingers to your swollen-shut eye and hairline, probing with an efficiency that would be impersonal if it weren’t for the tremble of his muscles.

A soft, pained sound escapes his lips when you wince.

“M’okay,” you whisper, tightening your hold on his jacket.

He glances down at your hands and curses angrily. “Christ.”

He grips your wrists and raises them up, fingertips circling the deep bruises that have already formed from the binds before moving down to your scraped-up forearms, your shoulders, your neck…

“I’m okay,” you repeat, even though you know he won’t accept that until he’s examined every inch of you for himself. “I’m okay.”

“You hear that, Red?” he rumbles, glancing over his shoulder at Daredevil, who has been observing the scene before him curiously. “She’s okay, yeah?” He scoffs. “How ‘bout you do that crazy-ass thing’a yours and try tellin’ me she ain’t lyin’ like I know she is?”

“Frank,” you plead as you press your hands to his chest, feel his heart pounding beneath his skin.

He steps back, jaw clenched and fingers curling into fists. “You listenin’ to her, Red? You hearin’ her ribs creak? Her blood poolin’ under the surface? Skin splittin’? Huh? _Answer me.”_

You swallow thickly, not quite following, but too worried about _him_ to waste your time trying to.

Daredevil says nothing. _What could he?_

“Yeah. You know. You know how fuckin’ bad this shit is,” he spits, disgust tainting every word, then suddenly switches track, “How many of ‘em?”

Daredevil tips his head down, voice low, like he’s ashamed. “Frank…”

“How _many_ of ‘em?” he roars venomously, shaking with the force of it. You reach out for him again, but he recoils and takes a step towards Red instead, like you touching him would _hurt_. “Do you even know?”

“The police were on their way, they can handle i-”

“Bullshit!” The Punisher bellows, gesturing wildly. “Bull-fuckin’- _shit!_ They can’t _‘handle’_ anythin’! Goddamn it, Red! How many of ‘em are out there right now lookin’ for her, hmm?”

You take an unsteady step forward and watch the veins in his neck stand out, the power in his muscles coiling up, the rage starting to consume him completely now.

It’s animalistic. Primal. But it’s not monstrous.

“How many of ‘em know her face? Where she _lives?_ You hearin’ me, asshole? How many of ‘em are gonna be waitin’ for her when she goes home, huh?” he continues, moving a couple of paces towards an uneasy, stricken-looking Daredevil. You follow like a shadow, ready to... _what,_ you don’t even know… you just _are._ “You even think of that shit when you let ‘em run? Did you even _consider_ what coulda happened if you were too late, if they’d managed to distract you, when you decided not to call me?”

You bite down on your bottom lip and split the barely-healing skin again, but you barely feel it. _Oh._

“You thought keepin’ me outta this and doin’ it all by yourself was the right thing, yeah?” he continues to rant. “Well, that’s bullshit and you know it! Your way don’t work, Red! I’ve _told_ you! It ain’t _enough,_ it-it ain’t _permanent,_ it ain’t- it ain’t _right_ for assholes like that to be out on the _streets,_ Red! Prison ain’t enough to stop them; what part of that don't you get?! This ain't some playground, Red, it ain't a God damn game! How many more lives do they gotta ruin before you realize the only way to deal with animals like them is to _put them down?!"_

"Frank..."

He steps forward again, doesn't hear you, but you're right there with him anyway as his voice drops deadly low, "What's it gonna take, huh? How badly do innocent people like _her_ have to get hurt before you fuckin' _listen?_ Ain't her gettin' the shit beaten out of her enough? What, do you- do you need _more?_ Would you only draw the line if she was bein' rap-"

You curl your fingers around his elbow and gently pull.

He closes his eyes and grunts, face contorting like he’s been burned.

“Stop,” you murmur softly, trying to keep your voice calm and level. You watch his jaw work, see his fingers start to twitch, the trigger-pulling motion you know to be born from stress and anxiety…

You reach up to cup his cheek and turn his face towards you.

He can’t bring himself to look you in the eye.

“This isn’t on him,” you whisper as your thumb ghosts across one of the bruises on his cheekbone. “You know that.”

He mumbles something you can’t hear, fingers continuing to flutter against his thigh, then slowly – so painfully slowly - lifts his gaze to meet yours.

Your breath catches in your throat at what you see within it.

He’s furious. So, so furious. At you. At himself. At the world.

And he’s hurt. He’s concerned. Frustrated. Exhausted… Scared.

You deserve his rage. Deserve his frustration. His worry, at a push.

But his fear for you?

Guilt rises up in your throat like acid.

You hadn’t realized how close to home this would hit for him.

It hadn’t even _occurred_ to you that he’d care enough to put this in the same _universe_ as that.

“Frank…”

He pulls away and stalks across to the coffee table to grab your half-drunk bottle of water from before, then glares at Daredevil before marching back towards you and shoving the bottle in your hands before stripping off his jacket and laying it heavily over your shoulders.

His thick fingers curl around your bicep over the fabric and tug, pulling you along with him as he heads for the door. You don’t try to stop him.

“Frank, stop! Think about this! She needs-” Daredevil tries to plea, but the way The Punisher’s jaw tightens and his laser-like focus on the end of the hall threatens to set the entire world aflame sends enough of a message that the resistance ends there.

“Sorry, Red,” you whisper as you’re frog-marched past him, straight out the door.

The Punisher’s grip on you gets harsher and he starts to drag you past the elevators a little quicker than before, but then you stumble slightly and he grunts out a curse before turning and hauling you up into his arms without warning.

You curl against his chest and let your head rest on his shoulder, ignoring the spikes of agony that course through you with every step he takes down the stairwell you’d fought so hard to get up.

After what you’ve just put him through, you deserve it.

_You never should have kept walking._


	6. Enjoy the Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late - I was in a car accident on Wednesday (my fault, foot slipped and I couldn't brake in time) so have been feeling really shaken up and hurt from that the past few days - but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> You're all so lovely and I appreciate every single one of you!
> 
> Things are getting intense between these two... let me know what you think!
> 
> Soph xx

_Words are very unnecessary._

_They can only do harm._

The journey to The Punisher’s safehouse is tense.

The continuing silence between you as he parks up outside the grungy-looking place is even more so.

Neither one of you moves to break it, though, even after he cuts the engine. Not that you expect him to; he hadn’t addressed you directly back at Daredevil’s apartment, nor has he done so at any point since.

Instead, he keeps looking straight ahead with a death-grip on the steering wheel just like he has the whole way here while you sway slightly in your seat with your blurred gaze fixed on your lap and try not to pass out.

The past hour has been a tough ride in more ways than one and it’s taken its toll on you, zapped what little energy you managed to claw back with your short-lived recuperation in Daredevil’s bed, but you fight to stay awake regardless. The inevitable conversation that’s looming like an unpinned grenade between you cannot wait.

It needs to be had _now,_ before the resulting explosion breaks you both.

The only problem is you don’t know what to say. Where to begin.

With an apology? Gratitude? Sympathy?

All of those seem like a horrendous idea, regardless of how genuine they would be.

They’re not enough.

Fidgeting uncomfortably, you inspect your cuts and bruises whilst trying not to let the sight of your own blood under your nails and around each wrist get to you.

These injuries are temporary. These marks will heal.

This… _wound,_ this… emotional _scar_ you’ve just reopened for him, though?

Time won’t be enough for that, will it?

How could it be?

He is who he is because of a single cluster of seconds that tore his life apart all those months ago; he’s been carrying the weight of them on his shoulders through every minute of every day that’s followed since. Time hasn’t helped him with _that._

All _this_ will do is add another cluster to the fray, make him re-experience the original trauma all over again, only instead of being through a nightmare or unbidden memory this time, it’s all happened for real and, somehow, you think that’s even worse.

Any healing he’s done just got _un_ done.

And it’s _your_ fault.

All you were meant to be to each other was an outlet.

An escape. A distraction. A thing that didn’t have to be a _thing._

Instead, you’re now the very torment he needs an outlet _from_ and he’s been dragged into your clusterfuck of a life irrevocably instead of being distanced from it like you meant him to be.

The pin needs to be put back in.

_Now._

Throat tight and nausea rising, you open your mouth and inhale, ready to speak…

He climbs out the truck and slams the door behind him.

You deflate instantly, rejection hitting you like another sucker-punch to the gut, but then he all but marches round to the passenger side to yank open your door, making you jolt in shock.

Without saying anything or even looking at you, he quickly reaches across your lap to undo your seatbelt and frees your arm from it, then grabs you by the thighs to twist your body towards him until your feet are dangling out the truck.

His movements are fast, efficient in a way that’s almost rough, and you find yourself clamming up instinctively, apprehension taking hold instead of desire for the first time since you met him.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…_

You swallow thickly and mentally brace yourself for a fight, for him to lay into you like you deserve, only to end up struggling to contain a whimper instead as he gently tips your face up with the crook of his finger.

He catches your reluctant gaze with his own, searching, checking… for what, you’re not sure, but there’s something in his eyes that simultaneously eases and heightens the pressure on your chest.

You bite down on your bottom lip, too wound up to even realize you’re doing it until his brow furrows and he gently coaxes it free with his thumb, but then realization of what _he’s_ doing seems to strike, for he immediately drops his hand and diverts his gaze down to a point near your bruised and busted ribs, withdrawing once again.

Your eyes fall shut and you find yourself suddenly on the brink of tears.

 _That_ is more brutal than anything else that’s happened to you tonight.

You didn’t want _this._

You never have.

All breath rushes from your lungs as he pulls you forward until your legs frame his waist, and you have to let your fingers go back to twisting and fidgeting in your lap anxiously again just to stop them from seeking out his chest for support. You don’t know what comes next or how to read him; it’s making you nervous.

After a long moment of silence, The Punisher lets out a small sound that could be a sigh, then carefully takes hold of your wrists so he can guide your arms up and around his neck. Your eyes fall shut as he lifts you up against him with ease, keeping you secure with a hand under each thigh, and you find yourself tightening your hold on him reflexively, unable to stop your fingers curling into the jacket he put back on once you were safely in the truck.

In this position, your ribcage isn’t as compressed as it has been and you’re able to stay relatively upright as he starts to carry you away from the truck, but you choose to press your face against his jacket anyway, right by his neck, to keep your injuries hidden from sight until you’re safely inside.

It’s not so you can envelope yourself in the familiar scent of his jacket.

You don’t let out a soft whine when he briefly leans his cheek against your hair, either.

That would be pathetic.

 

 

_(And, unfortunately, true.)_

* * *

The safe-house is small.

Functional.

Organized for maximum efficiency, just as you’ve always known it would be.

Crates of ammo are lined up near guns you’re certain are clean and well maintained.

A coffee brewer sits on one of the kitchen counters, easily accessible from a couch that’s ratty enough to make yours look brand new.

A metal-framed bed is pushed up against the back corner, opposite a half-open door, covered in neatly-made sheets and plumped up pillows. Habit, you guess, from his life as a Marine.

But then, right in the centre of his regimented world, lies a stark scar of chaos.

A crumpled t-shirt.

A half-eaten burger.

A knocked-over flask of coffee on the table in front of the couch…

He left in a hurry.

You try not to think about the most likely reason why.

As you continue to look around, voices filter through the speakers of something you assume is a police radio, harmonizing into a soft buzz which makes the silence from before less suffocating, but it’s the sound of The Punisher rummaging around what you assume is his bathroom that holds your attention the most.

You know he has supplies.

First aid. DIY surgical kits. Pain killers.

The myriad of scars on his body are proof of that.

What you don’t know is why he’s insisting on wasting them on _you._

You tried to protest, tried to talk him out of it, but he simply set you on the kitchen counter and stared at you until you relented, keeping his hands firm on your hips to make sure you wouldn’t topple, then walked away like it was nothing, stripping his jacket off as he went.

Although you’ve stayed sat on the counter so far out of necessity rather than will, the longer he’s taking in there, the more you’re starting to reconsider. The wait is making you antsy.

Leaning forward a little, you figure you could shuffle to the very edge, maybe, then try to lower your feet to the floor somehow, but deep down you know the most likely ending to that story is you falling flat on your face and making even more of a mess for him to clean up.

Yeah.

That’s not going to make things better, is it?

You let out a huffed breath and bow your head, then lean back again so you’re more upright and let your feet swing slightly in the air like a bored little kid’s. It’s a nervous thing, mostly, but it also gives you something to concentrate on other than the tension so you roll your ankles too, testing the movement.

They’re sore, but not as bad as you expect them to be. You’d put up quite the fight when they’d taken you; kicking, writhing, dragging your heels… You swing your legs with a little more gusto to test the rest of your joints, then wince when your knee twinges in response.

That, of course, is the moment he chooses to finally emerge from the bathroom.

_Damn it._

His face does something strange when he spots you, his steps faltering _just_ enough for you to notice. You freeze up, feeling like a deer in headlights, but then he clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on the tray of medical stuff he’s brought out with him before continuing towards you like nothing’s amiss.

You do your best to stay neutral, but if he notices you fail by tensing up a little when he places the tray on the counter beside you, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he moves over to the sink and grabs a clean bowl from the rack along with a box of matches before returning to stand beside you so he can carefully start to prep what he needs to.

Saline.

Suture kit.

Gauze.

Anti-septic.

Lidocaine.

Steri-strips.

Scissors.

You watch him line them up perfectly, like weapons of war, while he keeps his gaze focused on the task in front of him rather than you. His hands are steady, you notice, as he opens packets and readies himself to patch you up, but then when it’s finally crunch time and there’s nothing left to do but _start_ , he grips the edge of the counter and bows his head, letting out a low sound you can’t quite place.

You slowly lean towards him, duck your head to try to catch his gaze, but his eyes are screwed shut and his brow is furrowed and… Maybe he isn’t so steady after all.

Reaching out to cautiously cover his hand with yours, you whisper his name.

“Frank?”

His fingers flex beneath yours and you watch his jaw work as his eyes open to stare down at the single point of contact between you like he’s almost confused by it. He’s struggling with something, that much is clear; you just can’t work out what.

Your thumb absently strokes over his skin, making a shudder ripple up the corded muscles of his arm, but before you can mutter an apology for crossing the line, he straightens up and moves to stand right in front of you, between your spread legs, like whatever dilemma he’s facing has suddenly been resolved.

He clears his throat and pulls the bowl and bottle of saline close to your thigh, then squirts some of the clear, sterile liquid onto a gauze pad before lifting it, along with his gaze, up to your face.

The first dab makes you inhale sharply. Not from pain. Just… surprise.

He’s gentler than you expected him to be.

He starts by clearing the blood from your hairline, brow furrowing as he takes more care than he needs to around the tender, stinging area, before slowly working his way along your bruised cheekbones, across your battered jaw, over your grazed forehead… With every minute that passes, you watch the rise and fall of his chest become more steady as he settles into what must be a familiar routine for him – albeit one he performs on himself rather than anyone else.

Gauze pads gradually fill the bowl as he washes away what evidence he can of the night’s brutality from your skin, disinfecting what needs deeper cleaning with the anti-septic as he goes, but before long it’s time to deal with your swollen, half-shut eye, and you can _feel_ the change in him as he wets a new gauze pad.

He doesn’t want to do this.

You get it. _God,_ do you get it.

He can’t pretend it’s not you he’s dealing with anymore, can’t keep up the clinical approach he’s been taking, because the intimacy of what comes next will make it impossible to deny who it is he’s dealing with.

It’s about _you_ and him, now. Not him and a patient or fellow soldier.

There’s no escaping that.

You open your mouth, ready to offer an alternative, tell him he doesn’t have to do this, but before any words can escape he exhales a harsh breath, then gently tips your chin up with his free hand.

The moment your gaze lifts, he catches it with his, automatic and reluctant yet unavoidable and necessary. Something in his expression softens imperceptibly as the gauze between his fingers hovers right beside your abused eye, and you stare at each other for what feels like the longest time.

He’s seeing _you_ , now. Not looking through you.

It’s almost too much to take.

You give him the slightest of nods, one he doesn’t hesitate to return, then let your eyes fall shut as the fingers under your chin slide round to cup the side of your neck and keep you steady, his thumb grazing your jawline while his other hand gently presses the gauze to your brow.

You swallow thickly and try to focus on something other than the touch of his fingers and the brush of the gauze, but when he starts to wipe and coax the crusted rust from your skin, your fingers shoot out to grab his waist, curling in the fabric of the t-shirt that had been hidden by his jacket.

_Damn, that stings._

It takes you a moment to realize he’s frozen, the gauze having lifted from your skin the second you flinched, and guilt immediately shoots through you.

“Sorry.”

He tips your face up just enough to get you to look him in the eye again, then watches you carefully as he presses the gauze to your skin again. Your fingers tighten their grip on him and your breath hitches ever so slightly, but other than that, you don’t react, just keep your eyes on his. Let him calm you.

It’s intense, more so than anything else that’s occurred between you, though somehow it still isn’t enough; it’s only another minute before he’s dropping that gauze pad into the bowl with the others and the moment slips away.

Before you have a chance to miss it, he lets his hand drop from your face to your outer thigh and traces an arc over the denim of your jeans with his thumb. His other hand expertly pushes the bowl to one side and pulls forward the suture kit, syringe, and vial of lidocaine in its place.

You’re so distracted by his touch, it isn’t until he picks up the syringe that you put the puzzle pieces together.

“Won’t need that,” you assure him, voice coming out a little cracked. “I, uh… I’ll be fine.”

He raises his eyebrow, thumb stilling against your thigh.

“Needle’s gonna hurt just as much,” you explain quietly, though you know he already knows that. He just doesn’t know _you_ know that. “Quicker to get it over with, y’know?”

His tongue touches his bottom lip briefly as he considers your words, and then he gives a half-shrug and squeezes your leg firmly before reaching over to grab the suture kit with both hands.

You’re grateful for the lack of interrogation.

You don’t want to explain the reason you know all that is first-hand experience.

* * *

He stitches up your hairline, first.

Three sutures, expertly done, followed by another four at your brow.

They sting like a bitch and make you feel a little nauseous, but you know he’s taking more care to make things as painless and neat as possible for you than he has ever done for himself. His own body is a tool, patched up as and when required for no other purpose than to keep it running, but yours…

You let your hands slip to his hips and push the thought aside.

Several minutes later, he trims the final suture off and inspects his handiwork, eyes tightening slightly as he carefully tilts your face up so he can view it in better light.

After a long moment of consideration, he nods to himself, seemingly satisfied, then makes quick work of tidying the kit away before reaching for the steri-strips.

It’s overkill, the way he applies them to your throbbing cheekbone and bridge of your nose. You don't protest, though. Don't make a fuss.

If this is what he needs, you can't deny him it.

You're not _that_ selfish.

 

_(Yes, you are. Just in a different way.)_

* * *

When he's finished, the only part of your face that hasn't been touched is your lips; they're much too swollen and much too tender for him to suture, even with the option of anaesthetic available.

So, after he's disposed of the used supplies and washed his hands, the last thing you expect is for him to return to his spot between your legs and tilt your face up again so he can gently – _so fucking gently it makes your breath catch in your throat_ – use a saline-dampened thumb to rub away a little of the dried blood from below your bottom lip.

He could have left your mouth as it is. Could have written it off as a problem for you to handle in the morning. But instead...

His thumb is a little rough, weathered just like the rest of him, but it feels almost soft as it delicately cleanses your bottom lip with saline and strokes over your Cupid’s bow.

It’s intimate. More so than him tending to your eye.

Your hands tremble in your lap.

His fingertips quiver by your face.

_Oh._

As you inhale a shaky breath, your lips part under his touch and you see his do the same. Mimicking. Echoing.

Cleaning done, his thumb slowly maps the shape of your mouth as his dark eyes flit to yours, and the realization of what this has just become is enough to make your heart pound.

 _This_ is different.

This is _more._

This is _him_ taking care of you, now. Not The Punisher.

You don't deserve it.

He doesn't either.

But, in this moment? It's _Frank Castle_ who is leaning forward to press his forehead to yours.

It’s _Frank Castle’s_ hands that drop to rest on your thighs.

And it's _Frank Castle’s_ heart that pounds beneath your palm.

 _Hello_ , it whispers, _and goodbye._

* * *

It doesn't last long.

A minute.

A _second._

He lifts you from the counter and carries you to the bathroom, placing you on unsteady feet in the middle of the floor. You waver slightly, then grip the sink for support and nod for him to head back out again.

You take the sound of him rummaging for some clothes as the hint it is and gingerly start to unbutton your jeans, grimacing as the movement makes your ribs twinge. You get them down your legs by sheer will alone, then turn to brace yourself more fully against the sink so you can free one foot at a time, suddenly glad your shoes came off in the scuffle. This would have been impossible, otherwise.

As you kick the fabric aside, you hear The Punisher’s booted feet hit the tiles and glance up at the mirror in front of you to see him lean against the wall on the other side of the small room, a set of clean clothes in his hands.

This is the bit you’ve been dreading.

The moment he’ll finally see your wounds in all their fucked-up glory.

Swallowing thickly, you reach down and gingerly pull your ruined, blood-stained sweater up and over your head, whimpering softly when the movement aggravates _everything_.

The Punisher inhales sharply.

You duck your head and hold the sweater in front of your chest to shield him from the reflection as you croak, “You can leave ‘em there. I’ll, uh…”

_One thud. Two thuds._

His hands grip your hips and turn you to face him.

_Fuck._

You let the sweater drop without needing to be asked.

The Punisher _growls._

Your forearms, he’s already caught a glimpse of, but the dark handprints on your biceps? The scratches along the tip of your shoulder from where they’d thrown you into the back of the van? They’re just the start of what you’ve hidden from him.

Your ribs are blotchy. Dark. Agonizing-looking.

The tops of your breasts are bruised and swollen from the force with which that creature shoved you.

Your hipbone is bloody. He’d tried to scare you with the drag of a knife along your waistband.

You shiver when The Punisher traces that very same line with a fingertip.

He lets out a pained breath and clenches his jaw.

You finally catch sight of his face, then.

All you see is rage.

All-consuming.

Overwhelming.

Heart pounding, you reach for the clothes he brought you – _his_ – and gently tug them from his vice-like grasp.

His empty hand curls into a fist at his side and his finger starts to flutter while his other one curves around your hip, like it’s the only thing keeping him there.

It probably is.

You can _feel_ his body warring with his mind.

Sense his fury battling with his misplaced guilt.

You won’t ask him to stay.

Frank Castle has done his job.

He got you home. Stitched you up.

It’s time for The Punisher to do his.

“Go.”

His head snaps up, brow furrowed so deep it looks almost painful.

You give him a sad smile and reach up with your free hand to cup his cheek, letting your thumb stroke over a bruise in one last moment of tenderness.

“ _Go.”_

He doesn’t need to be told twice.


	7. Tear in the Membrane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind words and well wishes - I've needed them these past couple of weeks.
> 
> This chapter is a little on the angsty side, I guess, but I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Let me know! xx

For all the trauma and exhaustion of the night, you sure as Hell don’t seem to get much sleep.

Surrounded by sheets that smell like The Punisher and semi-high on the pain killers he left out for you before heading out the door without a word (geared-up and armed so heavily you’re surprised he was able to move), you expect to fall into a deep, lengthy slumber that lasts right through to morning, but instead…

It’s 4:28AM and you’re wider awake than ever.

You gingerly roll over onto your back, away from the illuminated display of The Punisher’s alarm clock, and sigh up at the ceiling for what feels like the hundredth time.

It’s not because you’re worried about him.

You’re not.

He can handle himself; you have no doubt about that.

It’s those assholes who should be worried.

Their death warrants were signed the moment he found out you’d been taken, though you know they would have been regardless of who the victim was. You also know that, if this was any other night, he’d be fucking you like an animal until you were raw right about now, channelling the rage left over from the kill into getting you pinned down and roughed up and loving every minute of it, because _that’s_ what tempers him.

Like a wildfire cut off from destroying everything in its path by a carefully placed backburn, his restraint on the field is anchored to that outpour of excess adrenaline, tethered to your body with each thrust inside you, and echoed in every bruise he leaves behind; it’s the only reason he seeks you out the way he does on those nights. _Balance._

But this isn’t any other night.

They hurt _you._

And while you can’t bring yourself to analyze _why_ that changes things for him, you can’t pretend that it doesn’t.

After witnessing him react so viscerally to how hurt you are… seeing how close he was to losing control of the fury inside him… How can you?

This isn’t just another case for him; it’s not just some random attack by a piece of shit gang in his eyes. Tonight has flown too close to that molten, white-hot core of his, and fucking your way through the fallout together won’t work this time.

He’s too far gone.

That fire within him has become an all-consuming inferno – you saw it blaze in his eyes when he first saw your messed up face, and then again when the extent of your injuries was revealed to him – but with no outlet for the pressure, all that rage is going to be directed in one place and _nothing_ is going to be able to stop it.

Those men have no clue what’s about to hit them. Every single one of them will be _wishing_ for the mercy of death once he finds them.

Because he will.

He _will_ find them.

Even if he has to tear the world apart to do it.

Perhaps that’s what’s making you anxious.

Perhaps _that’s_ the reason your heart is pounding and your body seems to be humming the way it has been ever since he left.

How far will his flames spread?

How much devastation will be left in the wake of his inferno?

You lift a heavy hand to your lips, fingertips clumsily mapping the careful path his took mere hours before.

No.

It’s not about him and _them_ at all.

Maybe, just maybe, the reason you can’t sleep is a single thought you daren’t acknowledge and keep trying to shove to the back of your mind.

When it’s over… when he’s finished with them and just the two of you remain…

What happens next?

* * *

Your skin is on fire.

You try to scream, but it’s like the air is ablaze, scorching you from the inside out and smothering the sound before you can make it.

You lift your hands, then watch in horror as your flesh chars and disintegrates before your eyes, sloughing off into nothing, though there are no flames to be seen.

You can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak…

He stares at you, unblinking, and watches you burn to ash.

* * *

If falling asleep was a joke, waking up is torture.

Your pain medication has finally worn off enough that the resultant bone-deep _ache_ throughout your entire body makes it almost impossible to get your muscles to co-operate, but you can’t stay still, can’t do _nothing_ … instinct is screaming that you need more tablets, and you need them _now._

You roll to the side that’s least bruised and struggle to get upright, limbs clumsy and uncoordinated like your brain’s only sending out half the messages its meant to. It wouldn’t surprise you if it was; your head is throbbing, sending the room into a violent spin, and your ribs are wailing at you like banshees from the pain, fucking you up even more than you thought possible.

You let out a breathless sob as you push against the mattress with your hands, too weak to achieve much more than sending shockwaves through your torso, but you can’t stop now. Can’t give up.

The bottle of pills is on the kitchen counter where he left it and he won’t be coming back anytime soon; what choice do you have?

You let out a cry of agony as you roll until your feet touch the floor and use the momentum to force yourself to stand.

Your knees try to buckle.

You almost let them.

The distance between you and the counter may as well be a chasm, the way your body is burning out, but you manage to shuffle-stagger-stumble forward in tiny increments, using the wall for support until you can brace yourself against the back of the couch with a wheeze of pain.

Fuck, this shit _hurts_.

You let out a pathetic whine which is supposed to be a laugh.

How the fuck does he keep going when he gets screwed up like this?

( _How did he survive even worse?_ )

The Punisher’s 05:15AM goes off and you jerk upright in shock, only to bite down hard on your tongue to stop yourself screaming at the excruciating spike it sends through your body.

_Nonononononono… ohgodohgodohgodohgod…_

You taste the now-familiar tang of blood in your mouth and rock back on your heels, an animalistic groan filtering from your mouth as you struggle to keep control.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Fuck this shit.

Fuck. This. Shit.

You shake your aching head and blink through the tears which are streaming down your face, eyes fixed on the prize that’s only a few feet away, now.

It’s desperation that pulls you forward. A primal, all-encompassing survival instinct that would sound melodramatic if it weren’t so fucking real.

Your feet are clumsier than before, like a marionette’s, but you somehow find the strength to move.

_Ten steps._

You can do this.

_Seven steps._

You’re about to throw up… You’re gonna…

_No._

You clench your hands into fists.

Breathe.

Regroup.

Go.

_Four more steps._

Almost there.

C’mon, you can do this.

_Two more steps…_

_One._

You fall against the counter and pant for air, fingers scrambling for the bottle with more urgency than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You drop the bottle three times before finally managing to unscrew the cap.

The pills spill into your shaking palm and you grimace when you shove three into your mouth without grabbing some water first. They’re bitter, hard to swallow, but you somehow manage to hold out long enough to drag yourself over to the sink and scoop mouthfuls of cold water past your swollen lips before the taste makes you throw up.

As they go down, so do you; you sink to the floor with your back against the cabinets and slowly slump over, pressing your cheek to the cool surface with an exhausted moan.

It feels nice on your face.

Soothing.

Calming.

The rest of your body is chilly; his t-shirt and boxer shorts don’t cover much, but they smell like him so...

You close your eyes.

The pills will kick in soon.

Yeah.

It won’t take long, will it?

The first ones didn’t.

You’ll get up, then.

When they do.

But not now.

No.

Not yet.

Soon.

Yeah.

In a sec.

Right now, you just.

Need.

To.

Breathe.

* * *

He finds you like that when he eventually returns, soaked in the blood and viscera. He lost track of whose it is somewhere between dirtbags five and six.

Even from the door he can see you’re shivering slightly in your sleep, curled up on one side with uneven breaths wheezing and puffing out from between your slack lips; it's the only reason his heart returns from its brief plummet into his stomach at the sight of you and settles back in his chest.

He doesn't let himself think about the alternative. About the last time he saw-

Steeling himself, he shucks off his jacket to spare you from the gore and crouches at your side to gently scoop you up into his arms before carrying you back to bed. Your head lolls against his chest, but before he can be consumed with thoughts of _before,_ of _Daddy_ and pain and raw meat and _loss,_ your hand curls against his kevlar, warm and alive, and he has to clench his jaw against the relief of it.

That was then.

This is now.

Your fingers don't cling on as he eases you beneath the sheets.

He’s grateful; he wouldn't be able to stand it if they had.

Careful and cautious, he tucks you in warm, then sits beside you with his fingers locked on the steady thud of your pulse at your wrist. Checking. Ensuring. Counting.

It's there. Present. Alive. Palpable.

Hers wasn't.

(He'd checked, he'd tried, he'd pleaded... holding what was left of his little girl against his chest and desperately reaching out to Maria, to his beautiful wife, who had tried in vain to use her own body to shield their son from the fallout… his fingers stretching across the chasm between them, shaking, weak…

By the time his skin touched hers, she was already gone. So was Junior.

He'll never understand why he was denied the privilege of joining them.)

The gentle kick of your heartbeat against his skin is a blessing and a curse; his scar _throbs_ with the weight of it.

You're still here.

For now.

He’s pulled from the brink of that blackhole by a sigh of his name.

You stir slightly and burrow further into the pillow, the movement causing your hair to fall across your face and him to frown.

Even in sleep, you’re not at peace.

He can’t help but feel responsible for that.

His free hand lifts to push the stray strands back into place without conscious thought, only to suddenly freeze, fingertips scant millimeters from the sutures he’d so carefully stitched just hours before.

The rusted red that covers them looks wrong against your skin.

He can't bring himself to mar you with it.

His fingers curl into a fist and he forces himself to walk away, to scrub out his sins in the bathroom and not look back, even though he learned that that shit doesn't wash out in the sink a long fucking time ago.

Sins like his never leave; they just corrode the rest of you until they’re all you’ve got left.

 

 

He’s gone before you wake up.

* * *

You don’t see him that day.

Or the day after.

Or the day after that.

He stocks food in the fridge overnight and leaves a fresh bottle of pain relief with ‘ _two, four times a day’_ written in block capitals on the side (next to the bed, this time, not on the counter), but that’s the only sign he’s been in to check on you.

The message it’s meant to send is clear.

_Stay put. Stay alive. Stay away._

He’s distancing himself, just like you knew he would, even while he makes sure you’re okay, that you’re safe and out of harm’s way.

And that’s fine.

You barely notice his absence anyway between doses of pills and fitful naps that don’t do anything to make you feel better; even in moments of exhausted awareness, you don’t have the brain power to truly focus on the police radio to try to work out where he is.

Not that it would matter even if you could.

The only thing that does is the fact he’s not _here._

You get it.

After such a close encounter, the distance between you is the only way to right things again. Restore that balance.

It’s for the best.

For both of you.

 

 

_(So why the fuck does it hurt like Hell?)_

* * *

On the afternoon of day five, you open your eyes to find adrenaline flooding your system and your heart pounding fiercely in your chest, setting you on edge before you’re even fully aware of it.

You push yourself upright, almost panting for breath, and scan the room through bleary, swollen eyes, survival instincts kicking in full force.

It takes you too long to figure out why.

The Punisher wouldn’t knock on his own door.

He’d use the key.

_Fuck._

You scramble out from beneath the sheets, grimacing at the pain that shoots through you as you furiously detangle your legs from the fabric, and instinctually start towards the bathroom…

A key slides into the lock and a tall, blonde stranger stops short halfway through the door.

“Oh,” she says softly, eyes widening almost comically at the sight of you slumped against the doorframe of the bathroom, half-dressed and still caught in the clutches of sleep. If you look half as terrible as you feel, you can understand why. “Hi.”

She doesn't look dangerous.

Too willowy.

Too soft.

Harmless.

But then something in her face changes as her gaze drops to takes in your injuries and you realize that's not true at all.

_Look like th’ innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t._

The quote comes out of nowhere, but it fits her perfectly.

You’re not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

“He didn't tell you I was coming, did he?”

You blink dumbly. Processing. Trying to understand.

“My name's Karen. I'm a friend of Frank's?” she offers, looking uneasy as you continue to stare. “He, uh… asked me to check on you, make sure you’re okay?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Of course the first contact he makes with you is through someone else.

_Of course._

“Oh, right, uh…” You clear your throat and shift uncomfortably, suddenly feeling naked wearing just his clothes and your wounds. You’ve changed into a new pair of boxers every day, but the second fresh t-shirt he left yesterday didn’t smell the same so it’s still neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and _Christ, why the fuck did you keep this one on?_ “He, um… he must've forgot, I guess.”

_Or not been able to bring himself to actually speak to you._

“Oh, right,” Karen echoes, nodding absently, though you can tell she doesn't believe you. If she knows The Punisher like she seems to, she knows he doesn't just _forget._ He’s too well-disciplined for that. “Well, uh, I...” She tucks her hair behind her ear and holds up a duffel bag like it’s some kind of white flag she shouldn’t feel the need to wave. “I bought you this. It's not much, just some toiletries and underwear, but I thought...”

She looks so unsure of herself, standing there, and guilt hits you like a fucking freight train, pushing the words tumbling out of you at once, “Fuck, shit, of course, come in, please, sit down, thank you, Karen, I’m sorry, let me just…”

She lets the door close behind her as you stumble toward the kitchen, suddenly switching onto autopilot.

“Do you, uh, do you want some coffee?” you blurt, then grimace when you bump into the counter, knocking your ribs in your graceless effort to undo the awkwardness of the past few minutes. “I can-I can-”

Her hand is gentle when it touches your forearm, but it’s enough to make you freeze in place with a sharp inhale of breath.

“Sit down,” she coaxes with a soft smile. “I’ll make the coffee.”

“But…” The words die before they can fully form, leaving you to nod weakly in submission. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

She guides you over to the couch and leaves the bag by your side before moving back to the kitchen to make the promised coffee.

It’s a good thing, too, because your body starts to throb with pains it was too jumbled to interpret correctly when you first woke up, and the way she moves around the space with an air of familiarity means the drinks get made long before you would have been able to find the damn coffee granules.

_She’s been here before, then._

As she settles beside you, placing the steaming mugs on the table in front, you unzip the duffle bag and look inside.

A spare toothbrush.

Toothpaste.

Panties.

Bralets.

Deodorant.

Socks.

Pretty standard stuff.

But then your gut twists as you spot the next few items.

A razor.

Pads.

Tampons.

Feminine wash.

They’re thoughtful, but they’re also much more than that.

They’re a sign this won’t be over as soon as you hoped it would be.

“Guess I’m here for a while, huh?”

It was meant to sound light-hearted, but instead the words come out sad, resigned… lonely.

Five days with no human contact does that to a person, you guess.

Karen frowns, and the slight grimace that twists her lips gives you your answer, even as she deflects with a, “I just wanted to cover all bases.”

This isn’t just a temporary set-up; it’s your new home.

“That’s… That’s great.” You force a smile and reach for your mug, giving her the out she needs. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Any friend of Frank’s a friend of mine,” she says quietly. “If you let me know your sizes, I can bring you more next time?”

_Next time._

So this isn’t just a one-off, either.

She’s now his proxy.

You bring your mug to your mouth. The burn of the coffee on your still-split lips is a welcome distraction from the pain in your chest. “Thanks. I’ll, uh… I’ll do that. For next time.”

She nods, fingers tangling with each other on her lap.

You watch her for a long moment, then want to smack yourself for not recognizing her sooner. “Page.”

Her head snaps up like she’s been shocked.

“Karen Page,” you continue, shaking your head at your own slowness. For not realizing who she is. Why he’s sent her. “You work for The Bulletin.”

Her face brightens and some of the tension melts away from her shoulders now that gap between you has been bridged with familiarity. “Yeah, I… guess? I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing half the time but…” She lets out a soft, nervous laugh and runs a hand through her hair. “I try.”

You let out a breath of relief and try to focus on that instead of anything else.

If she’s going to be the one that keeps you sane while he’s away, the least you can do is try.

You sit in a comfortable silence, listening to the low hum from the police radio, the occasional rumble of a passing car… but then her phone buzzes in her purse and she mutters an apology, fumbling to answer it.

“Hello?”

She stands up and starts to pace, shooting you the odd glance between murmured acknowledgements and hushed responses.

You don’t need to hear the rough voice on the other end of the line to know it’s him.

“Alright… yeah… no, that’s fine… mhmm… see you then.”

As she disconnects the call, you swallow past the lump in your throat and try to smile warmly.

“Everything okay?” you wonder, even though she isn’t going to give you the answer you crave.

“Yeah,” she replies, smiling back with the same forced air. “I’m sorry to leave so soon, but…”

“It’s fine,” you dismiss lightly. You don’t want her to have to lie to you. “Duty calls.”

She nods, then hesitates a moment before grabbing her purse from the couch and tucking her hair behind her ear again. “Do you need anything? Some food? Water?”

“I’m good,” you force out, waving a hand in some weird gesture of placation. “Go. I’m alright here, don’t worry.”

She regards you with eyes that see far too much, and for a dreadful moment you almost think she’s going to stay, but instead she just smiles. “It was nice to meet you, finally.”

You don’t want to know what she means by _finally_.

It’s too much, too soon, to bear.

“You, too,” you reply, then watch her head for the door, blonde hair rippling like a golden wave as she does so.

When her hand closes around the handle, your chest tightens painfully.

“Karen?” you call out quickly, the name getting caught in your throat. “That article you wrote? ‘ _What is it, to be a hero?’_ ”

She twists round to face you, door half-open and blocking part of her face. “Yeah?”

Your gazes meet, leaving you raw and exposed.

“Thank you.”

She doesn’t need you to explain why you say it.

She simply smiles and gives you the smallest of nods before heading out the door the same way she’d came in; quiet and unexpected.

* * *

You don’t sleep at all that night.

 

 

Neither does he.


	8. Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a clip of Frank/Micro talking about Karen got released and holy shit... Just gonna say, I didn't watch that until long after I wrote the majority of this chapter, and it freaked me the fuck out how similar it was to one of the last scenes.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments on the last chapter - your words mean more than I can say and I really appreciate your thoughts, particularly during these tougher chapters.
> 
> On that note... please don't hate me.
> 
> Soph xx

Loneliness is a powerful thing.

You’ve felt that way before, of course; it’s not a new experience.

Feeling alone in a crowded room is something you’re no stranger to.

A lifetime of horrendous family gatherings and very few friends has made sure of that.

But this?

This _isolation?_

It’s the real deal.

You’ve never _truly_ been alone before now; you just hadn’t realized it.

There’s no phone. No TV. No internet.

Not even the neighbors make a sound.

It’s just you and the police radio, here.

Some days, you’re grateful for the noise.

Most days, you can’t stand it.

All it does is remind you there is a world out there – fucked up and crime-riddled, yet there all the same – but you’re no longer part of it.

Once you noticed that void between you and rest of the world, doubt and dread started to fill it, enforce it, make it grow, and not even Karen’s visits do much to help. If anything, they just highlight what you’re missing.

It’s not her fault, not in the slightest. You’re glad for the company and the breaks in your day. Even on the worst ones, having a familiar-becoming face here lightens your mood, if only for a moment.

You can understand why he values her so much now. Why he trusts her. She’s like sunshine in the middle of a storm, gently warming the space she fills, but doesn’t intrude or impose like others do. Not unless it truly matters, anyway.

You should count yourself lucky and be grateful that she comes here. You know that.

And yet… no matter how much you try to brush it off and smile and stop it getting to you, your heart still races every time that door unlocks only to stutter to a crushing halt when it realizes it’s her on the other side.

She’s not the one it wants to see.

He is.

It’s harder than it should be, admitting that.

The truth is, it shouldn’t _be_ painful, this distance between you. It’s always been there, in a way – you’ve both made sure of that – so this shouldn’t feel any different to normal. It’s not like you’ve been seeing each other every day or have constant interactions; you’ve gone longer than this without seeing him before.

You understand that.

After all, this was never supposed to be more than an outlet for either one of you.

You didn’t go to his table that first night because you wanted to be part of his world. It was a favour, a moment, from one stranger to another, and yes, it became something else along the way, after gifts of coffee and those men and _‘she gets it, Kid’_ and _‘I ain’t gonna stop, not for anythin’_ , but it was never meant to turn into ‘ _she better be okay_ ’ or tender touches or cleaning wounds.

_This_ is not where it was supposed to lead.

Both of you need space. From this. From each other. It’s the only way those boundaries which have become so suddenly blurred will redefine themselves and set things to straight. The only way you’ll ever be able to take that step back to the right side of the line again.

And still, somehow… you miss him.

More than you ever thought possible.

The distance hurts. A lot.

_(You’ll never say that out loud, of course. Not to him.)_

It’s not simply about missing having someone’s company – if it was, Karen would satisfy that need to a degree.

It’s not about the sex either, no matter how central it is to this thing you’re no longer sure isn’t a _thing._

It’s him.

You miss _him._

And you really, really shouldn’t.

 

_(God damn it.)_

* * *

You’re pretty sure you no longer have a job.

In all honesty, you completely forgot you even had one until Karen’s boss called her up to remind her about a meeting the next day while she was checking your ribs over.

She’s probably at that meeting right now, doing whatever it is reporters do to put their articles in the paper.

You wonder if her boss is as horrendous as Simon.

You doubt it.

That guy’s a special kind of asshole.

But at least you won’t have to deal with him anymore, given that there’s no way in Hell he’s _not_ firing your ass the moment you try to step back in that office after being AWOL for however long you’ve been stuck here.

( _Sixteen days; let’s not even pretend you haven’t counted.)_

It’s what he’s always wanted, isn’t it?

Can’t fuck you, so fucks you over instead, right?

You won’t give him the pleasure; you’re not going back there.

Impending money issues aside, it’s probably for the best you didn’t even if Simon wasn’t involved.

_They_ know where you live – no chance they don’t know where you work as well.

Well… _worked._

And probably _lived,_ too.

You don’t really want to go back to your apartment, given what happened the last time you walked through the door.

_Screaming hair pulling kicking scratching dragging flailing…_

Yeah.

Fuck that.

* * *

“I have wine,” Karen announces the following Wednesday as she bustles in to the kitchen, loaded up with bags.

You let out a strained laugh and try not to let your disappointment show as she places two bottles on the counter before starting to unpack the other contents of the bags into the fridge; you hoped that her bringing groceries a few days ago was a one off, but… he’s given her that job to do as well now, apparently.

_(You really shouldn’t be this surprised by that.)_

Refusing to dwell on it, you climb gracelessly off the couch and pick up one of the bottles, more grateful than ever that your body is recovering from its trauma quicker than you expected it to, then smile when you realize it’s one of your favorites – cheap but tasty. There’s a bottle of it in your apartment.

_Ex_ -apartment.

Whatever.

“He _let you_ buy me wine?”

The non-committal hum she gives in response is a little _too_ non-committal.

_Oh._

You raise an eyebrow. “Karen.”

She puts on the most innocent expression she can, but you can tell she’s trying to hide a smile of her own. “He didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“Because that’s _totally_ the same as permission,” you tease lightly, smiling back like hope hadn’t fluttered in your chest at the thought of him somehow knowing what’s only two days away now and adding the bottle to her list himself.

He probably hasn’t got a fucking clue – about the wine _or_ the date.

_(How would he? You never mentioned either one.)_

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Karen barters, but instead of making you laugh, her words twist something horribly in your gut.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” you mumble bitterly, pushing down the hurt as best you can and heading over to the couch with the bottles just for something to do.

He’s not going to find out about the wine. That would require him actually _speaking_ to you.

_(That’s not fair; you know why he isn’t.)_

Karen doesn’t hear you, or ignores it if she does, and grabs two mugs from the sink along a bag of chips before coming over to join you. You shift to the end of the couch as she toes off her heels, then wait for her to sit facing you before covering both your legs and hers with the thin blanket you keep close by for exactly that purpose.

It’s a routine the two of you have fallen into, these past few visits; curling up at opposite ends of the couch and talking about nothing that really matters just to pass the time. It took a while to get past the initial awkwardness of not knowing much about each other, but somewhere along the way the two of you found some common ground outside of The Punisher, and now you would almost consider her a friend.

A friend who has only become so out of duty, but one nonetheless.

At least _she_ talks to you.

You shake your head to dispel the thoughts and hold up both bottles, keeping yourself in check.

“Which one’re we drinking?”

“After the day I’ve had?” she replies as she pops open the chips and puts them between you, “Definitely both.”

_That_ makes you smile.

“I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

And you do.

Both of you.

* * *

“I like you,” you tell her late that night, nodding appreciatively but clumsily since the second bottle turned out to be almost as good as the first. “You’re’a cool babysitter.”

“I like you, too,” she kinda slurs with a clink of your mugs. “Nice to not be the one bein’ baby _sat_ for once.”

You let your head loll against the back of the couch, absently wondering if drinking like this is interacting with the pain meds you’re still on and making you feel more drunk than normal. (He reduced your dose from what it was before in the last note he left you, but you’re sure he’d still kick up a fuss if he knew how the two of you have been spending your evening. Not that you care… much.) “What, you get put on house arrest, too?”

“Not exactly,” she admits, gulping down her wine in a way that tells you there’s more to that than she wants to give away.

“C’mon,” you huff. “Out with it.”

“What?” She does a double take, then shakes her head quickly. “No, no, that’s not…”

“You got a captive audience right here,” you remind her, trying to keep the bitterness out of your tone with limited success. “C’mon, I need _somethin’_ to think about when you’re gone.”

She looks down, almost embarrassed. “It’s not the same, it’s not-”

“Don’t matter,” you cut across. “Who is it?”

“We don’t… I’m not…” she mumbles with a frown. “We should be talking about you and Frank, not-”

“I don’t want to talk about… about him,” you interject quickly. “I wanna talk about _you._ C’mon, Kare, jus’ get it off your chest, I know you wanna.”

“I…” She hesitates, then rolls her head like she’s working out some tension in her neck and sighs, “Matt.”

Ah. The lawyer friend.

Not the good one who almost got The Punisher off.

The blind one.

The ex.

She may not have said that last one yet, but it was easy enough to put the pieces together after you heard her talking on the phone the other day, and this just confirms it.

There’s a history there; one neither of them are fully over yet.

“Go on,” you encourage, gesturing with your mug and almost sloshing the wine out of it in the process. “M’all ears.”

“It’s just...” She frowns deeply, expression turning sad. “He thinks I need t’be looked after all the time, y’know? And I _hate_ it.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t need his help, I don’t need him to watch over me, but… he doesn’t get it. At all. And he’s supposed to have _known me_ for ages now, he’s meant to be my… he’s meant to be my _friend._ He should know by now that I don’t need him like that. I mean, Frank?” Your chest doesn’t tighten at the mention of his name. Nope. No way. “Frank does. He gets it. He doesn’t lie to me, doesn’t treat me like- like I can’t handle myself and he actually _respects_ me for who I am, not who he thinks I should be, y’know? I’m not just some damsel to him; I’m an actual person.”

You nod with closed eyes. “He’s good at that. Respecting.”

_Respecting boundaries. Respecting invisible lines._

You wish he was worse at it.

_(Yeah, the meds are definitely interacting with the drink. Shit.)_

“He ever tell you I pointed a gun at him, once?”

You slow open your eyes again and lift your head, intrigued.

“After the trial, when everyone thought he was killing people who were part of it?” She looks down at her mug contemplatively. “He showed up at my place, and I was terrified my instincts about him were wrong, that it _was_ him after all, so I threatened to shoot, and… he _listened_. He barely knew me, but he knew I’d do it. He knew I had it in me.”

_I had it._

_I know, Ma’am._

Your lips twitch at the memory.

_There you go. There’s my good girl._

“But Matt…” Karen continues, drawing your attention back where it should be; away from _him._ “Matt…”

You can read between the lines.

“Doesn’t,” you supply, voice softening just slightly. _She’s hurting, too._

Karen nods.

“He _says_ he cares about me, that he believes in me and trusts me, but he doesn’t _know_ me. He doesn’t understand,” she laments, with all the frustration of a potential love lost.

You wish you knew how that felt, that you had that problem. Instead, _he_ knows you the same way you do him; too well.

_Stop thinking about him._

“I thought he did, once,” she continues, oblivious. You’re grateful for the distraction. “But then I realized that, if he did, he wouldn’t do _stupid_ shit like going all _Daredevil_ to come save me every time I stub my to-”

Her eyes widen comically and her hand claps over her mouth in horror.

It takes you a few seconds to work out why.

Wow.

Shit.

Okay.

That...

Makes a _lot_ of sense, actually.

You absently wonder how long it took _him_ to figure that out. That his lawyer was the reason he needed one in the first place.

Knowing him, it probably wasn’t long.

But that’s not important right now.

“Y’know, I’ve been wondering about that,” you muse, playing it off like what she said isn’t a revelation. “Is he actually blind, or is that part of his cover?”

Karen blinks, then sinks against the couch, her relief palpable.

_Good job. Nice save._

You’ll pat yourself on the back for that one later.

“Yes’n’no,” she replies, frowning. “I mean… he _is_ , but… he can still _see_ , in his own way. I think? I mean, his other senses’re heightened or… y’know, whatever it is.”

Nodding, you consider that for a moment, then grimace as a thought hits you.

“Shit.”

_No wonder his nose scrunched up so bad…_

She lifts her mug to her lips to take another sip. “What?”

You wince, feeling terrible for the guy all of a sudden.

“I threw up on his shoes,” you confess.

Karen almost spits out her wine from laughing so hard, and despite the ever-present ache in your chest you’re quick to join her, gingerly holding your still-healing ribs to stem the pain.

It’s nice.

_(It’s not enough.)_

* * *

“Wine, Ma’am? Really?”

“You stalking me too, now, Frank?”

“I ain’t stalk-… That’s not what I’m…”

“Isn’t it? You promised you’d actually go see her _weeks_ ago, that me checking in was only temporary…”

“Look, it ain't... it ain’t that easy, okay? I can’t…”

“You’re avoiding her.”

“No, it’s… I’m not _avoiding_ her, I just… I’m _not.”_

“Does she know that?”

“…”

“Didn’t think so.”

“Listen, do... Do you have anything for me or not?”

“Of course. It’s all in there.”

“Thank you.”

“Mhmm.”

“Ma'am, this is... this is _good.”_

“Mhmm.”

“What?”

“Avoidance or not, what you’re doing isn’t fair. You know that, right?”

_“Karen.”_

“I’m just saying… She could do with a friendly face right now.”

“Why’d you think I send _you_ there?”

“That’s not the same, Frank, and you know it.”

“…”

“…”

“Thanks for the information, Ma’am. I’ll see you around.”

* * *

Two days after Karen’s impromptu wine party, you find yourself drinking on the couch again.

She didn’t have time to stay after dropping today’s bottles off since she missed yesterday morning at work due to the hangover from Hell and is working late tonight to make up the time, but you appreciate her finding a way to pop over with them anyway.

It’ll make tonight go much easier.

Maybe.

You hope.

* * *

It’s strange, really. This hollow pit in your chest.

It’s bigger than ever, today, just like you knew it would be.

It’s not like you _want_ anything from him.

You’re not going to push for things you know he can’t give to you.

You just need to see his face right now.

That’s all.

No words. No contact. No sentiments.

Just a chance to look in his eyes and remind yourself that he’s real. That you are not as alone as it seems. That this solitude is only temporary and life will go back to normal soon.

No more secret visits when you’re too deeply asleep to notice.

No more hiding.

No regrets.

It would only take a moment.

Surely you deserve that?

It is your birthday, after all.

* * *

“Ten seconds out.”

He adjusts his scope one last time.

Breathes.

“Five.”

_One batch…_

“Four.”

_Two batch…_

“Three.”

_Penny…_

“Two.”

_and Dime…_

“One.”

The target’s head jerks backwards, blood and bone and brain matter splattering the man behind him.

By the time the other three realize what’s going on, it’s too late.

Heart.

Forehead.

Groin.

“Ouch, was that last one really necessary?”

“Yes.” His bag is already in his hand. “Any movement?”

A pause.

“Neighbor across the street. Diverting the call now.”

“Thanks.”

He mutes his comm and heads for the fire escape.

Number Four may only have lost his balls for now, but will start bleeding out soon enough.

He hauls himself down in double time and is in the van less than a minute later.

Dead men can’t be tortured.

 

 

( _Yes, they can.)_

* * *

It takes you a bottle and a half to realize you don’t have a cake.

Isn’t that just _sad?_

You should.

_Everyone_ should have a cake on their birthday.

The past few years, you’ve worked the day, so your colleagues have always brought one in to celebrate, even if only out of obligation, but your own, private tradition has always been to buy yourself a single cupcake, add a candle, and eat it alone at home.

It feels wrong, not doing that.

Of all years, you’ve earned it this time round. Staying alive long enough to make it to today hasn't exactly been easy.

So you rifle through the kitchen drawers, fingers fumbling from the alcohol, nerves, excitement or all three until they find a couple of bills, then tuck the cash in the back pocket of the jeans Karen bought you that don’t quite fit and head for the door.

You stop short with your fingers on the handle.

Oh.

You look down at the floor and let out a bitter, almost hysterical laugh.

You don’t have any shoes.

You don’t.

Have.

Any.

_Shoes._

The sob that escapes you is guttural, _visceral_ , and you find yourself sinking to the floor, arms wrapped around yourself in some pathetic attempt at holding yourself together.

Now the torrent of tears has started, there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

* * *

Loneliness is a powerful thing.

You understand, now.

How toxic an emotion it can be.

* * *

“I don’t know where they are, man, I don’t _knowww_! I swear!”

He lets Four drop back onto the concrete and stands up to his full height.

He knew as much within the first minute.

He kept going for another five anyway.

_“Cops will be on you in three.”_

He dips his chin in a single nod, knowing Micro will pick it up through whatever feed he’s hacked into.

_“I got you a route out.”_

“Please, man… Please…”

He looks down at the sobbing man beneath him and feels nothing.

“You got-gotta believe me!”

“I do.”

By the time the cops find what’s left of Four’s skull, The Punisher is long gone.

* * *

You change into his t-shirt.

It doesn’t smell like him anymore; another sign he hasn’t been by in a while.

You feel ridiculous, but it’s the closest thing to comfort you have right now.

An old t-shirt he doesn’t miss.

How pathetic.

You throw your mug at the door and watch it shatter, followed by both empty bottles just seconds later.

It's not fair.

 

 

_(He may be able to step back over that line and move on, but you can’t. No matter how much you want to.)_

* * *

“Why are you here, man?”

He lets his head tip back against the wall and closes his eyes.

Damn Micro and his whiskey-loosened mouth.

“Go home.”

“Go _home?”_ He opens his eyes, glares at his companion of circumstance. “I ain’t got a home to go back _to,_ David.”

“Bullshit,” Micro shoots back with a glare of his own.

Eight seconds later, he’s faced with the over-sized monitor Micro runs all his surveillance through.

Only one feed is on display this time.

Yours.

“You wanna rethink that?”

“Cut that shit out,” he curses without looking at the screen. He can't bear to. “Fuckin’ creep.”

“What? Like sneaking in to check on her when she’s asleep is any better?” Micro challenges.

His fingers curl tighter around his glass and he stares up at the ceiling, barely able to bite his tongue.

It _is_ different.

It’s necessary. It’s _essential_. It’s-

“You could be there _right now_. With _her_. So why-”

“Why aren’t you with Sarah?” he shoots back.

Micro’s face hardens.

It was a low blow, he knows that; he just doesn’t care.

“You know why I can’t be with her,” Micro gets out lowly, refusing to back down. “ _That_ is out of my control. I have no choice. _This_ is different. This is you _choosing_ not to join her.”

“It ain’t that easy for me, alright?” he barks back, fingers thrumming with anxious energy. It takes all his focus to stop them moving. “None of this… it ain’t… I don’t… it ain’t the same for me like it is for you, okay? And she sure as fuck doesn’t need me t-”

“She doesn’t _need you?”_ Micro’s voice is harsh and loud, piercing the space between them. “For God’s sake, _look_ at her, Frank!”

The use of his name makes him grit his teeth, but he fucking follows the order anyway.

In less than a second, his brain catalogs everything about the image the way it’s been trained to – the splinters of glass by the door, the dishevelled bed, the messy table – until his gaze finally homes in on _you_.

Small. Meek. Curled up on the couch.

Even from here, he can tell you’ve been crying.

Something’s _wrong._

He sits up straighter, tension instantly hardening his muscles and making it almost impossible to get his question past his lips. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Micro snarks, voice betraying his irritation as he turns the screen back to its usual position. “Maybe she saw a stray kitten? Broke a nail? Ran out of strawberry ice cream?”

He bristles at how wrong Micro is, at the sharp _need_ to have that image back now he’s seen it.

_You’re a dog person, first and foremost, chocolate chip is the flavor that you’d be sad about running out of, not strawberry, and the only time you ever care about your nails is when you’re scraping them down his ba-_

“Hell, maybe it’s hormones?” Micro continues spitefully, dismissively, toying with him just because he fucking can. “Is her period due anytime soo-”

His tone drops and turns deadly. “David.”

Micro laughs bitterly and shakes his head, unperturbed by the silent threat. “It’s her fucking _birthday_ and you’re making her spend it alone, Frank. Why the fuck else would she be crying?”

_Oh._

His blood turns to ice, the crystals piercing every vein… lodging in every artery…

He missed their last birthdays. Their last several, if he’s honest.

He always made sure to sign their cards in advance, never forgot a single date, but wasn’t able to _be_ there. Not how he wanted.

Right time. Wrong place.

The kids understood, of course – Maria made sure of that, being the brilliant mom she was – but that didn’t make it any easier.

_(“But it’s your birthday, Daddy!” Lisa always tried to reason, smiling toothily into the screen. “We gotta sing the happy birthday song!”_

_“When I’m home, Baby,” he always promised. “When I’m home.”_

_She never got a chance to hold him to that.)_

After losing them, he never planned to mark milestones like that again.

Too much. Too raw. Too hard.

He didn’t think he’d ever have to.

The thought makes his gut twist.

Guilt. Shame. Grief.

He didn’t think he’d ever have a woman in his life that wasn’t Maria, either.

And yet…

“You didn’t know.”

His fingers tap against the glass, skin _crawling_ at hearing it said out loud like that.

It feels like an accusation.

And so it should.

_He didn’t have a fucking clue._

Micro sits back in his seat and lets out a frustrated breath. “Jesus, Frank.”

He clenches his jaw. Looks away. Deflects.

“I told you not to-”

“Look into her?” Micro interrupts with a scoff. “How else did you expect me to keep tabs on her, Frank? _Clairvoyance?_ Remember, _you’re_ the one who asked _me_ to-”

“I asked you to look out for her _safety_ , not spy on her!” he snaps, slamming his glass down hard enough to make it crack. “She’s not a mark, David, you had no right to do th-”

“You gave me no choice!” Micro spits angrily, rising from his seat. “You think I _wanted_ to dig into her life like she was some kind of criminal? Huh? Or that I _like_ checking in on her four times a day – _if not more –_ to tell you something you would already know if you weren’t too busy burying your head up your ass to do it yourself?”

A low growl escapes him as the leash on his control slips, Micro’s words hitting him right where they were meant to.

“How do you think it feels knowing that if maybe, just maybe, I’d gone with my gut and looked into her as soon as the two of you became a _thing_ , I would’ve been able to find her that night?” he continues, landing blow after blow after God damned blow… “Instead, _you_ refused to put a tracker on her like I said you should, _I_ didn’t even know her fucking _name_ until it was too late, and _she_ got seven shades of _shit_ beaten of h-”

He’s on his feet, the barrel of his gun pressed under Micro’s chin, before he can even blink.

They stare at each other, unrelenting.

Terrified Rage versus Undeniable Truth.

_Checkmate._

“Be pissed at me all you want, but we both know I’m right,” Micro grits out through the pressure on his jaw, gaze as fiery as ever. “This isn’t on me, Frank. It’s all you.”

_Everything is._

_It’s all his fucking fault._

_Them._

_This._

He lets out a disgusted sound and pushes himself away, letting Micro stumble back as he turns his aggression to a disused chair instead.

_“FUCK!”_

The chair slides across the room and cracks off the wall with a bang, then clatters to the floor in pieces.

_God damn it!_

He falls toward the desk beside Micro’s and braces himself against it, head bowed and pounding.

His breaths are hard, painful in his chest.

Memories.

Flashes.

They swirl like a vortex, opening up the bullet-carved black hole in his head that never fails to cripple him.

There’s only two things in the world that can make it stop. That can make everything go quiet.

Planning and executing acts of violence that put him back in that calm mission-mode he spent so long in overseas...

And spending the night with you.

_(It’s wrong, it ain’t right, it shouldn’t work that way, he doesn’t want it to, he doesn’t get to feel anymore, doesn’t get to-)_

“’S not too late, y’know,” Micro calls hoarsely, massaging his jaw. “I can get you there by twelve.”

He clutches the edge of the desk so hard, he feels it start to splinter.

He wants to.

Fuck, he wants to.

His chest _burns_ with it.

It shouldn’t.

It’s not right.

He shouldn’t _want_ anything.

Shouldn’t want _you_.

You’re not _them._ You’re not _her._

_How the fuck did this happen?_

(He knows. He knows _exactly.)_

“No,” he finally gets out, voice cracked and rough. “Not tonight. I need… I need _time._ ”

_Time to think. Time to process. Time to understand…_

Micro lets out a frustrated sigh.

It’s not the first time he’s used that excuse.

It won’t be the last.

“You’re an asshole, Frank.”

 

 

_(And doesn’t he know it?)_

* * *

Your hangover the next day is so bad, you couldn’t get out of bed even if you tried.

You take his t-shirt off, though.

Strip the bedding, too.

It’s time to start trying.

If not for your own sake; for his.

* * *

Three days later, after two more assholes in the ground and he is one step closer to ending this, he ditches his comms and tactical gear in the van and heads to the truck, ignoring Micro’s all-knowing gaze.

The drive is painful. Anxious.

He almost turns around.

But he doesn't.

Not this time.

Heart in his throat and stomach in knots, he parks up outside and gets out the truck before he can change his mind.

His knees are like Jello, too weak to support the lead that’s filling his chest, but he somehow manages to make it through the main door.

It takes everything he’s got to keep going.

Down the hall.

Up the stairwell.

First door on the right.

His fingers shake so hard, he almost drops the key.

_Pussy._

He grits his teeth.

And steps across the threshold.

“We need to talk.”


	9. Hanging On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, you lovely readers... I am so gobsmacked by the response to the last chapter, I honestly got a bit overwhelmed in the best of ways, particularly by Anon's lovely wish to tip me for it!!!
> 
> I absolutely adore writing this, and you're all a big part of that. You inspire me, encourage me, and I couldn't do this without all of you!
> 
> Also, for anyone who has yet to see The Punisher and is worried about spoilers... firstly, go watch that shit. Right now. You won't regret it. Jon Bernthal is INCREDIBLE... but mostly, don't worry about accidentally having the plot ruined by this fic. The majority of this story was planned long before the show was released, so while some aspects will be altered to incorporate some of the plot lines from season one, this will be more... canon-parallel than completely canon-compliant for obvious reasons and I will place spoiler warnings as needed!
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Love Soph xx

The safe-house is tidy, now.

There’s no more glass on the floor.

Karen’s taken away the bedding and pile of clothes you shoved in the bathtub to be laundered.

The fridge has been emptied out and deep cleaned.

The kitchen cabinets are organized once again.

You’ve even scrubbed the bathroom.

You settle on the couch with a mug of coffee and smile.

All in all, it’s been a Sunday well spent.

 

_(You’re trying.)_

* * *

The next morning, you sleep through The Punisher’s alarm that you still haven’t turned off and end up not waking up until late – your body is still getting over Friday’s drunken mistake in all honesty – but once you’re up, you’re up so at least there’s that.

Your appetite has been dwindling for a while, even more so in the past week, but you cook yourself some eggs and bacon and pop a couple of slices of bread in the toaster as a late breakfast anyway, and actually manage to eat more than a few mouthfuls this time before your brain turns it into bland mush.

It’s not much, but it _is_ progress.

Without anything else to deep clean after yesterday’s scrubbing, you haven’t got much to keep you occupied and, unless you find something quick, you’ll be riding a one-way ticket back to crazy town. It’s already taken bloody nails, raw fingertips, bitter sweat and more tears than you’d dare count to drag yourself out of that pit of loneliness and despair far enough to be back over that line; you _really_ don’t want to make that trip again.

So, you wash up the dishes from breakfast.

Make yourself a cup of coffee.

Re-plump the couch cushions.

And start folding the clean clothes Karen brought back from the laundromat, setting out two piles on the table before you.

His and yours.

Yours and his.

 

(You pack half of each into a _‘get the fuck out’_ bag and leave it on the table. Just in case.)

* * *

It’s only an hour later that you flop on the couch and sigh heavily, itching with boredom once again.

Thinking positively only gets a person so far, after all.

You sip your perpetually cold coffee and look around helplessly, desperate for something to do.

Everything’s perfect.

Calm.

Peaceful.

The exact opposite of your own apartment.

Except… there’s one cluster of things you _haven’t_ touched, isn’t there?

Your eyes can’t help but be drawn to them every time you look up.

His weapons.

His tools.

His _life…_

You’ve left it all alone, so far.

With good reason.

Fingers tapping against your mug, you force your gaze to slide over them, moving on in your search.

Kitchen… table… bed… bathroom door…

Short of getting Karen to buy a duster and a vacuum cleaner for you, there’s _nothing else_ left to distract yourself with that hasn’t been cleaned/scrubbed/sorted twice already.

You’re half tempted to fuck the place up, just to have an excuse to clean it all again.

Your gaze flits back to the stack of crates.

Idle hands are The Devil’s workshop.

That’s what they say, right?

You bite your lip.

_Fuck it._

You climb off the couch and place your mug on the table before heading over to assess what needs to be done, assuming anything _can_ , of course; the last thing you need is to accidentally set off a grenade or shoot yourself in the foot by touching something you shouldn’t.

But you needn’t worry. It’s sort of beautiful, the way he’s organized everything. You can almost _see_ how easy it would be for him to grab the exact weapon required, even if it were in the dark, and load it up within seconds, ready to fire. He’d know every nook, every cranny, every box within a box within a box… it’d be as easy for him as breathing, though nobody else would have the first clue on where to start if they tried.

His military training has served him, and this country, well.

You can’t bring yourself to ruin it, not completely.

Instead, you push the couch over a little to clear a space against the wall and start shifting the crates one by one, keeping them in the same order but moving them so that they’re no longer the first thing you see when you glance around the place. It feels like a violation of privacy, changing things round like this, but you try not to think too hard on that; it may be his safe-house but, right now, it’s your _home_ and it’s time you started acting like it.

It’s not like he’s going to be around enough for it to make that much of a difference to him anyway.

But, in the unlikely event he does change his mind and comes back to stay? You’re sure he’ll understand. He’s not _that_ much of an asshole, even on his worst days.

The last crate is lighter than the others, thank God – your back is fucking _aching_ and your ribs really hate you for putting them through this shit – and it can’t be as secure, either, because as you carry it across the room to stack it on top of the others, the covering shifts and you catch a glimpse of what’s inside.

_Books._

Your fingers twitch with the need to pull back the covering even further, to check if your boredom’s just playing tricks on you, but something stops them in their tracks.

If moving his stuff _felt_ like a violation of privacy, actually rummaging through it, even if it’s just to get a book, _definitely_ is.

You let your eyes fall shut and sigh heavily.

You can’t bring yourself to do it.

Running a hand through your hair, you move back over to the couch and grab your half-cold mug of coffee before settling in to listen to the police radio for a while instead.

Boundaries.

Boundaries are good.

* * *

You’re making the bed after a post-dinner nap when you hear the rustle of Karen’s keys outside the door that evening.

You smooth down the covers with your palms, then place the freshly-plumped pillows on top and smile to yourself.

_Perfect timing._

As her key slides into the lock, you head to the couch and grab this morning’s empty mug from the table, ready for a refill, then move towards the kitchen just in time for the door to finally swing open.

“Hey, Kare, you want some coffee?” you ask, not bothering to look up as you walk over to the counter by the sink that houses the new jar of instant coffee you’ve been wanting to try ever since she brought it by last week. “I’m gonna out try this new shit, see if it’s any good.”

You hit the button for the kettle, the immediate rumble of water heating almost a roar compared to the muted click of the door closing, then rinse out your mug in the sink as you continue, “I’d offer you some wine, but after last time…” You let out a self-deprecating laugh and finally turn to face her. “I think I-”

The words cut off with a choke.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

It’s not Karen.

It’s _him._

Your foot lifts, body seeking his like a magnet, only to freeze when he flinches imperceptibly.

_Distance. Distance is good._

You exhale a weak, shaky breath as your hand finds an anchor in the countertop for support and let your gaze trail over his body from top to toe, too stunned to remember the reasons why you shouldn’t _stare._

His hair’s longer, now.

Almost soft looking.

He’s freshly bruised, as always; greens and purples and yellows, painted on his skin in watercolor.

They’d be beautiful if they weren’t so tragic.

_(They still are; they’re a part of him, after all.)_

His jaw is set and he’s frowning, taking you in just like you are him.

You wonder what he sees. What he thinks...

But then he meets your gaze and everything _stops_.

_Oh, Frank._

He looks _tired_.

Even on a rough day, you’ve never seen him look this bad; like he hasn’t slept in _weeks,_ let alone just his usual few days.

You can’t help but feel responsible for that.

Everything that led to this… _mess_ is on you. _Your_ family, _your_ actions, your own stupidity… He shouldn’t be the one losing sleep over it all.

His dreams are haunted enough already.

By _them_. The things he's done. The things he _wishes_ he had...

Your fingers jitter with the need to reach out, to touch, to soothe, but before they can so much as twitch, his lips part and he finally breaks his silence.

“We need to talk.”

It takes a comically long time to process that.

You run the words through your head, forwards, backwards, round and round...

_Talk._

_Talking._

_Right._

You swallow thickly and fight the urge to run.

_Talking’s good._

_Talking is…_

_Talking is progress, right?_

_He’s here. You’re not asleep._

_This what you wanted._

_You’ve been begging for it for weeks._

_This is a good thing._

_Talking is…_

Nausea washes over you.

Who the fuck are you kidding?

Nothing _good_ has ever followed those four words.

Your fingers curl tighter around your mug.

All you’ve wanted is for him to show up, and now he’s finally here… you wish you’d had more time to prepare.

This is only going to end one way.

_The end._

Unless...

“Did something happen?” you ask, just to be sure you haven’t read this wrong and your heart's not the only thing in danger after all. “Do I need to…”

His eyes follow the shaky gesture you make in the general direction of the _get the fuck out_ bag you should really have put closer to the door and something akin to guilt flashes across his face.

“No,” he croaks, then clears his throat. The ache in your chest returns full force. “Nothin’ like that. I just…” He shifts from one foot to the other as he glances down at the floor, then raises his head, leaving you powerless to avoid his gaze. “I need to talk... To you.”

Tears sting your eyes as you read between the lines, and it takes all you have to nod in understanding.

_Yeah._

_Here we go._

_This is it._

_The moment he cuts you out for good._

“Okay,” you agree hoarsely, then turn away and lift the hand that isn’t holding your mug up to sweep imaginary strands of hair behind your ear in a nervous gesture you can't contain. “Okay. Uh… Do you… Do you want s-some… Some coffee? I was gonna make myself one anyway, but…”

_Will you be staying long enough to drink it?_

“You don’t gotta do that,” he sighs, and you hear the familiar thud of boots that warns he’s moving closer. Your hands shake as you put your mug down in front of the now-boiled kettle, muscles trembling in anticipation. “C’mon, let’s go grab a cup someplace else, yeah? It ain’t as good as Nancy’s, but I know somewhere we can-”

Your eyes fall shut and your throat constricts painfully. “I can’t.”

“What dya mean, you can’t…” He lets out a frustrated huff of breath and you can picture his expression perfectly. Furrowed brow, tightened eyes, tense lips. “Look, I ain’t gonna let anythin’ happen to you, okay? You ain’t gotta worr-”

“I’m not worried,” you whisper truthfully. He'll do anything to keep you safe, you know that like you do your own name. “It's just...” You bite your bottom lip and grimace at how pathetic you sound. “I don’t have any, uh… I don’t have any shoes.”

_Sobbing. Crying. Please let me go please let me out I can’t do this any-_

You bow your head and brace yourself against the counter.

Remembering _that_ is only going to make this harder.

Several seconds pass.

Maybe even a minute.

You could hear a pin drop, it’s so silent.

With apprehension sinking into your bones like lead, you glance up and catch his reflection in the window.

He looks _wrecked._

Your chest loosens just a little, staving off the flood.

He didn’t know.

He wasn’t keeping you prisoner on purpose.

He thought you could have walked away.

_He didn’t know._

You clear your throat and discreetly wipe your cheeks of stray tears, then reach up into the cupboard above to grab the clean mug that matches yours, refusing to make this any tougher for him – for _either_ of you – than it has to be.

You’re not going to cling on to this. You can’t do that to him.

He deserves better.

Ignoring the tremor in your hands, you check the back of the jar before spooning out the designated amount of instant coffee into each mug, heart pounding all the while.

He shifts uncomfortably again, voice turning low and soft, almost regretful, “Listen, I…”

“I know,” you murmur before this gets any harder, busying yourself with pouring out the steaming water from the kettle. “It's not your fault; they came off in the struggle.”

A sound escapes his lips, breathy and pained.

You grimace. You hadn't meant to remind him of _that._

_Focus. Come on. You can do this._

“If this stuff sucks, blame Karen, okay?” you warn lightly like nothing’s amiss, stirring each mug in turn. “Unless you’re the one that suggested it, in which case it’ll be your own fault, but either way, don’t judge me if this turns out to be shit, you got it?”

A pause.

_Please, Frank, work with me._

“Yes, Ma'am,” he agrees, though you can't tell if it’s relief or disappointment that makes his voice waver.

“Good.”

Taking a calming breath, you finally muster the courage to turn and face him, then offer him his mug with a small, painful smile. An olive branch.

_I’m ready._

He's hesitant to accept it; you can see it in his eyes. It’s almost as if he's unsure. As if he's just as confused about the line as you are.

You take a half step forward and stretch your arm out a little further.

_C'mon, Frank, I can handle it. It's okay. I understand. Just take it._

He doesn't.

Your heart sinks.

_Please don’t._

“Do you... How are...” He swallows thickly, fingers tapping against his thigh, then looks down at the floor. “Are you okay?”

You feel your expression soften and fight the urge to reach out to him.

He doesn't have to do this, doesn't have to be nice, but he’s trying anyway. Trying to pull the punch.

It won’t help.

“I'm healing up,” is the honest answer, physically speaking. It's also the only one you can think of to save him from the _real_ truth without outright lying. “You, uh, you did a good job. Patching me up like that? You, uh... stopped it scarring too bad, so... Karen, she... She was able to take the stitches out for me a while back. Gave me some arnica for the bruises, too, but... well, you know how long those take to fade better than anyone.”

He looks up again, expression so pained, you have to turn and put the mugs on the counter under the pretence of re-stirring the coffee just to keep it together.

“My ribs are still sore, I have to admit, but nowhere near as bad as before so long as I'm careful, so I can't really complain,” you continue. Even you can tell the tremble in your hands is echoed in your voice; you hate it. “Not that I should be complaining about any of this, really – what happened to me was nowhere near as bad as what you go through every-”

Hands slowly slide over your hips from behind and warmth seems to penetrate through your entire body, stilling your movements and taking your breath away all at once.

_God, you’ve missed him…_

You close your eyes and grip the counter with both hands as his fingers curve to keep you steady and his forehead drops to rest lightly against the back of your head. You don’t lean back into him no matter how much you want to and try to keep your breathing even… but then you realize his isn’t steady either and struggle to contain a whimper. _He’s just as affected as you._

“That's not what I was asking,” he breathes, the words ghosting over your hair like a caress.

You tighten your hold on the counter, wishing he hadn’t called you out for that. It’s much easier to only focus on the physical side of things; the thought would make you laugh with its irony if you weren’t so close to tears. “I know.”

He makes a low sound and squeezes your hips, pulling them back a scant inch towards him. Tender. Needing. A plea.

You open your eyes and look up at the ceiling, praying for strength you’re not sure you’ll ever have.

_Let me go, Frank. Don't do this to yourself._

_(Please don't let me go.)_

“Tell me,” he murmurs softly. Your head drops and you exhale unsteadily, the breath turning into a muted moan as his lips fall to the corner where your neck and shoulder meet and his thumbs slip under your t-shirt in search of bare skin. “ _Please.”_

“I don’t...” Your voice cracks. “I don't know what you want me to _say.”_

“ _Anything_ ,” he gravels out, lips brushing your skin with every word, “Just... _Talk_ to me.”

“Like you've been talking to me?” you whisper bitterly, a tired laugh bubbling up unbidden. “Aren't I a little too _awake_ for that?”

He hisses in a breath, almost like he's been sucker-punched, but he doesn't retreat. If anything, he just holds you tighter.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“What you want from me, Frank?” you croak weakly. It takes everything you have to keep going; you're bleeding out, and he's the knife that's plugging the wound, delaying the inevitable. “Do you want me to lie? Tell you I'm fine? That it’s not driving me stir crazy, sitting here with _nothing_ to do but wait for you to walk through that door and tell me it's over?”

His grip on you becomes so tight, it hurts, but you revel in it, thrive off it, carve the memory into your brain, because any second now, it's going to end. He’s going to let you go.

_(He was never meant to hold on. Neither of you were.)_

“Do you want me to pretend I haven't been waiting up, listening to that _Goddamn_ police radio every night I've been stuck here, praying for a sign those assholes haven’t got lucky and you’re not bleeding out somewhere?” Your tone turns sad. Resigned. A deathbed confession. “Should I tell you I don't _miss you?_ Pretend it doesn’t hurt to know you can’t bear to be around me anymore?”

A shiver runs through him, then, and you feel the traitorous hot flow of tears start to run down your cheeks.

“That’s what you need, right?” You lift your head and blink back the tide, wrapping his hand around the hilt of that blade for him and bracing yourself for the catastrophic haemorrhage. “That's what you came here for?”

“It... I...” His words come out stuttered, conflicted, and you instinctively try to move closer to the counter to put more space between you, only for him to growl under his breath and _pull_ you back with both hands as he whispers, _“Yes.”_

_F... u... c... k..._

You lift a hand to your mouth, barely able to stifle a sob.

The other covers your stomach, trying to stem the flow.

_Oh, God…_

Knowing it was coming did nothing to prepare you for the _pain_ of hearing him admit that out loud.

You can't breathe. Can't think. Can't _move._

If his hands weren’t holding you up, you’d crumple to the floor.

_It's for the best. You both need this. Let go. It's-_

“But I don’t _want_ it.”

Your heart stutters.

Stalls.

Restarts.

“I know I should,” he continues, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. It's your turn to shudder, now. “I should take the Goddamn out you’re offerin’ ‘n’ walk away, yeah? I _need_ to. I _need_ that. It’s the right thing to do. The _only_ thing to do. But… I don’t _want it._ ”

The bleeding clots, just for a moment, but it’s enough for you to stutter, “Wh-What are y-you…”

“I ain't stupid,” he mumbles lowly, almost desperate in his need to get his confession out before God strikes him down. His fingers start to flutter at your hips. You hear his breathing hitch. “I know what this... what this _is,_ okay? Between us.”

Your lips part, but no sound escapes them.

Shock.

You're in shock.

Your hands return to the counter and cling on tight.

“I had this _before_ ,” he presses, quiet and pained. The _then I lost it_ goes unspoken. “We ain't the same, the two of us; this ain't… this ain’t like me and her, okay, it ain’t ever gonna be, but... I know where this leads, yeah? This thing? I _know_. 'S been headin' this way for a while.”

Your breath catches as you realize what he's trying to say.

_No..._

_No, he can't mean that..._

_No way in Hell._

_“Frank...”_

He squeezes your hips _hard_. Struggles to stay steady.

“Look, I… I ain't right. Up here. Never gonna be either. So I can't...” He shakes his head just slightly, but you feel it all the way down to your fingertips. “I’m not him anymore, yeah? I can't _give_ you anything... That part of me died with them, with Maria, and I ain't got anything good left in me now... I don't know if I can _be_ anything but this anymore… _The Punisher,_ y’know?... Maybe that’s just me, now, maybe that’s all I got, but I... I still…”

Unbidden, your hand moves to cover one of his, the contact like an electric shock that immediately makes you try to recoil, but his fingers are quick to react, threading between yours and holding tight.

_He isn’t letting go._

Your eyes widen.

_Ho… ly… Fuck…_

He.

Isn’t.

Letting.

Go.

“Do you…” he breathes, lifting his head at last. “Do you understand?”

Wordlessly, you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

He lets out a shaky breath and squeezes your hand, almost as if he’s reminding himself you’re still there, that he hasn’t lost _you_ yet.

He hasn’t.

He _won’t._

You let yourself sway backwards against him and bite back a moan when his nose brushes the shell of your ear.

“I ain’t got the right to ask for shit from you when I can’t give you anythin’ back. I know that, okay?” he murmurs, another quiet plea. “I’m a piece of shit for doin’ this, for what I’ve _been_ doin’, but I… I ain’t… I can’t…” He shudders once again, and the vibrations reverberate through every point you’re joined. “It don’t work, yeah? Doin’ what’s gotta be done for them and tryin’ to… I can’t do both. It ain’t fair. On you _or_ them. So I… I can’t do _this_ until… until it’s done. All of it. And I’ll need time to… to figure out if there’s even gonna _be_ an after for me. After _them_. And if there ain’t…” He inhales a shaky breath that you echo. Your heart _breaks_ at the thought of him not having an _after_ , even one that isn’t with you. “If there ain’t, I can’t drag you into that shit, yeah? I won’t _let_ myself _._ It wouldn’t be right. You deserve… you deserve _more_. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to give that to you.”

You close your eyes. Feel a tear spill down your face.

_He has no idea, does he?_

You don’t need _more_.

You just need _him._

You bite down hard on your bottom lip until your tears stop flowing, then slowly turn to face him and smile sadly as you lift a hand to his cheek, thumb stroking the bruised bone. “Okay.”

The sound of your name on his lips for the first time is the most beautiful pain in the world.

“I don’t need you to do both,” you whisper, blinking against the sting. “I just need _this._ ”

He clenches his jaw, eyes glassier than you’ve ever seen them, then slowly starts to lean forward, bit by bit, until his forehead presses against yours.

You both sigh.

In relief, in contentment, with longing… it doesn’t matter.

He isn’t letting go.

_(Neither are you.)_

“I…” He closes his eyes and his brow furrows, like he can’t quite bring himself to accept what you’re saying. “You…”

You smile tearfully and nod against him, bringing your other hand up to touch his jaw.

“It’s okay," you urge him to believe. “Frank, it’s _okay._ ”

The past few weeks can’t be erased; too little, too late, too hard, but knowing _why_ they happened the way they did...

You close the distance between you with a hesitant step, releasing his face to loop your arms around his neck instead, then gasp at the force with which he holds onto you with both hands and brings your chests flush together.  _How could you ever think you'd be able to let this go?_

As his face buries itself in your neck, you let your fingers card through the hair at the back of his head and feel tears spill anew when he groans half in relief and half in pain, a drowning man finally allowed air.

“Don’t forget,” he almost begs, fingertips digging into your back with how tightly he’s holding on. “ _Please._ I _know_ and I want this, okay? You gotta remember that. If I can’t… If I don’t… You need to know…”

“Shh,” you soothe, pressing your lips against the side of his head as you slowly start to sway from side to side.  _Together._ “It’s okay… It’s okay…”

 

 

You _know._


	10. More Than You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful for every single one of you who commented on the last chapter. I have NEVER had such a strong, amazing response like that before and I know I keep saying it time and time again but it means so much to me to know that you are all liking this and feel things as much as I do when I write!
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay in this update, but between my birthday just before Christmas and then Christmas itself and New Year spent without a working phone to use (mine's broken and screens aren't cheap!), I simply haven't been able to get fingers to keyboard to get this out until now with my old laptop! The next update will be up much sooner, I promise.
> 
> In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy this one, so please let me know your thoughts at the end!
> 
> Soph xx
> 
> PS: for those of you who have asked about a donation page, I've got one [here](https://www.paypal.me/SophieRosina) but honestly, just knowing you like this is enough.

You don’t know how long you stand there together. Swaying. Breathing. _Being._

Seconds.

Minutes.

An hour.

It doesn’t matter.

Nobody has _ever_ held you like this before.

Like you matter.

Like they care.

Like you’re _everything._

And you…

You’ve never had anyone _to_ hold on to.

Until now.

You run your fingers through his hair, letting your fingertips lightly scratch his scalp, then smile when he hums lowly in response and squeezes you tighter to him.

Yeah.

It isn’t much.

But it is enough.

* * *

It’s the sound of his phone ringing that cuts things short.

He curses under his breath and mumbles an apology as its tone blares loudly in the silence between you, then lifts his head from your neck to pull the offending cell phone from his back pocket. His brow immediately furrows at whatever’s on the screen, darkening his face in a way that makes your heart clench.

Knowing what’s going to come next, you slowly lean back in his hold, hips still pressed tightly to his, and let your hands slide down from around him, across the back of his neck, over his shoulders, then onto his chest in an attempt at stealing a last few moments of contact.

He shivers at your touch, fingers of his free hand flexing against your back, but his frown only deepens further with the next buzz of his phone.

“Frank,” you murmur softly, ignoring the harsh tug somewhere in your chest at the thought of watching him walk out that door. “It’s okay. You can answer it.”

His gaze flits to yours, as if to make sure you’re telling the truth, and then he exhales a frustrated breath and looks back down at the phone. You start to release him from your hold, let your fingers unfurl from the fabric covering his chest, but instead of pulling away like you’re used to and expect, he keeps you pressed tightly to him in a silent command when he hits _accept_.

Stay.

_(Always. Forever. I’m yours.)_

His voice is a bark, a stark contrast to his touch that startles you back into focus. “What.”

You can’t hear the response, not clearly, but the look that crosses his face after a few seconds pass is enough to confirm your first thoughts, that he’s needed elsewhere, so you allow yourself to trail your fingertips down to his waist and then his hips, absorbing it all while you can.

_I know and I want this, okay?_

_I know and I want this._

God, it’s finally real…

The knowledge makes your stomach swoop.

“You’re sure?” he gravels out a few moments later, though you barely register the words until he hisses out a low, “ _Jesus, Lieberman,_ ” as distracted as you are by your own thoughts.

You look up to watch his face as he listens to the other voice on the line – _Lieberman_ – rattle off something else that does nothing but make his expression darken even further.

“Christ…” His jaw clenches and his fingers twitch against your back, irritation mixing with concern in a way that’s hideously beautiful, so you reach up with one hand to soothe him the best you can and try not to overthink the way his eyelids flutter or how his breath hitches ever so slightly the moment your palm cups his cheek. “Okay. Yeah… Yeah, I know… Alright.”

When his eyes meet yours, you stroke your thumb across his skin, catching slightly on a hint of stubble, then give him a sad smile of understanding that makes his gaze soften and his shoulders lose some of their tension.

He doesn’t have to say it; you already know.

He has to go.

“Okay,” he eventually sighs, sounding just as resigned and tired sounding as he had when he first arrived, though for a different reason this time.

You absently wonder when he last was able to stop for more than a second at a time, how long it’s been since he didn’t have to force himself to keep going with no respite, no relief...

_Slick skin. Hands squeezing. Hips thrusting._

_So fuckin’ good… C’mon, girl, c’mon…_

That.

Then.

The hand that’s on his waist lifts to curve around the side of his ribcage, like the movement might relieve the tension it holds.

(You’re not the only one who’s been holding their breath ever since.)

With his eyes still fixed on yours and his breathing steadying, he reluctantly asks Lieberman, “Where?”

As the answer comes through, his gaze flits focus from one eye to your other and back again; tiny, almost imperceptible movements that expose his anxiety about leaving. You dip your chin in a small, solitary nod, silently coaxing him to do what he must.

After a moment’s pause, he concedes.

“I’ll be there.”

He ends the call with a swipe of his thumb, tucks his cell back in his pocket, then pushes gently against your back to bring your hips flush against his and keep you there.

As if you’d ever even _think_ of moving away before you absolutely had to now he’s made it so beautifully clear you’re allowed to _touchkeephold_.

“M’sorry,” he murmurs regretfully, tilting his face into your hand until his lips brush the base of your thumb in the ghost of a kiss. “If I could…”

You nod in understanding and pray your voice won’t crack as you whisper, “Yeah.”

_If I could, I’d stay._

His jaw clenches and you prepare yourself for the retreat, but then the hand that once held his cell phone braces itself against your hip and his forehead presses to yours and…

He doesn’t leave.

He just…

 _Looks_ at you.

Memorizes you.

_Stares._

(Oh God, he _sees_ you. Really, truly _sees you._ )

Overwhelmed by the sheer _weight_ of it, you let out a shaky breath that draws his gaze down to your mouth, his lips parting in an echo of your own.

A charged second passes.

Then another.

When his eyes fix themselves on yours again, they’re darker, full of something inexplicable.

The tip of his tongue barely grazes his bottom lip. Yours mirrors it.

_Oh, to kiss him…_

God, it’d be so easy.

A push onto your toes.

A tilt of your head.

A shift of his.

And then, finally…

Swallowing thickly, you let your hands slowly drop to your sides and look down at his chest instead.

Not now.

Not yet.

Not until he’s ready.

Until you _both_ are.

Your forehead presses ever so slightly into his, yearning. His presses back.

_Soon._

He breathes you in.

You breathe him out.

His hand squeezes your hip.

“I’ll be back.”

Your noses brushes his.

“I know.”

His hand moves from your back to tip your chin up, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Frank…”

The caress of his lips across your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth, is enough to make tears sting hot and wet in your eyes.

“Stay safe.”

You close your eyes tight. Push it all down.

_(You can’t bear to watch him go. Not again.)_

The air around you ripples. Leaves you cold.

You reach behind you.

Fingers catch. Entwine. Linger.

Your voice breaks. “You, too.”

He squeezes tight.

And then he’s gone.

 

 

You manage to make it a full thirty seconds before your tears fill the void he leaves behind.

* * *

Despite the day’s emotional exhaustion, you stay awake until the early hours, snuggled into the corner of the couch with a cup of hot cocoa in hand as you listen to the police radio drone on in the background.

Whatever he’s out there doing hasn’t raised any flags with the cops – not that you ever expect it to – but the absence of him reassures you for once, instead of making you nauseous.

What he does out there, what he _really_ does, is something you’ll never be privy to. You’ve known that from the start and never wanted otherwise; why would you want that to change, knowing the cost?

This literal radio silence means he’s safe. Hidden. _Alive_.

When it comes to Frank Castle, no news is good news.

It’s a good thing. The _best_ thing.

It means he’s going to come back.

For the first time in weeks, you actually believe that.

(And, when you eventually climb into bed at 4:00AM and tell yourself that sleeping in his t-shirt again is okay now, that he wouldn’t mind, you believe that, too.)

* * *

Your skin is on fire.

You try to call out his name, but his lips meet yours again – _again, again, new and perfect and everything and –_ and smother the sound before you can make it, swallow it down, soothe it.

_I’ve got you, m’right here, I ain’t goin’ nowhere…_

You lift your burning hands to his face, overwhelmed and trembling, then watch in awe as your flesh sparks and flickers before your eyes, lighting up as it touches his, though they quickly fall shut when his hips roll against yours.

_Nuh-uh, eyes open for me, yeah? Look at me, lemme see… yeah, yeah that’s it, there’s my good girl... Fuuuck, there we go… there we go… right there, mm? Like this?_

You can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak…

He gazes down at you, fingers squeezing tight, and watches you _ignite_.

 

 

You startle awake with a gasp, then moan his name into the darkness as the crest of a wave ripples through you, clenching your fists tight in the sheets like you wish you could in his hair.

It’s the only good dream you’ve had in _weeks._

* * *

He stops by while you’re sleeping again.

Brief. Fleeting.

When you realize it the next morning, though, instead of feeling frustrated or betrayed by his decision not to wake you up, all you can do is smile as you let your fingers trace over the words he scrawled on the post-it that’s now stuck to the fridge.

**Books are yours – help yourself.**

**Stay safe.**

**F.**

 

You spend the morning reading Moby Dick.

* * *

When Karen stops by several hours later, the first thing she does is smile.

You return it without hesitation, but it’s reserved. Subdued. Private.

She puts her purse down on the counter and slips off her heels before moving forward, wrapping you up in a hug that you don’t even realize you need until it’s happening.

As she pulls away, her hand cups your cheek and her expression turns so soft, something tells you most people won’t have had the privilege of seeing her that way before. The vulnerability suits her just as well as the fierce outer shell that protects her heart, but she probably doesn’t let this – the real her – show through that often; it’s easier to be lonely, sometimes, than to open yourself up like that to the wrong person. You know that better than anyone.

“You look better,” she murmurs, eyes bright and soothing. “What hap…”

Your cheeks flush, giving it away before you can even formulate words.

 _“Oh.”_ She gives you a small, knowing smile. “He came.”

You nod. No point trying to deny it.

She lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank God.”

“Mmm,” you hum. _Thank God’s right._

“I was…” She hesitates. “I was starting to think…”

“Me too,” you admit quietly, shyly, then reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear as she lets her hand fall back to her side. “It’s, uh… It’s not, y’know…” You fidget on the spot, suddenly unsure even though you _know_. “It’s complicated.”

“But it _is_ something?” she supplies knowingly.

You close your eyes. Remember the desperate way he held you. The tremble in his muscles. The brush of his lips across your skin.

“Yeah,” you whisper, meeting her gaze. “It’s something.”

* * *

You dream about him again.

Over you.

Under you.

_Inside you._

It’s the same as always with him; dreaming or awake.

Raw.

Passionate.

All-consuming.

Except…

In your dreamscape, when he hitches your knee higher up his side and pushes your hair back from your face, it’s not the change of angle that has you gasping.

It’s the feel of his lips on yours.

* * *

_The Crack-Up_ is… different.

Cathartic.

Poignant.

But it’s not the book that captivates you.

It’s the _pages_.

Crinkled with use.

Favorites dog-eared from repeated revisits.

Words worn down by the touch of a fingertip, lingering over the same phrases time and time again.

Ones which talk of sinking. Withdrawal. The disintegration of one’s personality while waiting for sorrow to fade.

Whispers of sudden blows from outside and those from within.

Realizations of never being a good man again.

 _Those_ are what hold you. Stay with you. Haunt you.

Just like they do him.

Those details, as small as they may seem, reveal everything.

His darkness. His demons. His battles.

You already knew those parts of him complemented yours, but actually _seeing_ the proof bared like that, in such a private way, is almost too much to take.

But then, just a page or so later, more smudged ink marks something so beautiful, you can’t help but trace the words with your own fingertip just to feel them like he does.

_‘A man does not recover from such jolts – he becomes a different person and, eventually, the new person finds new things to care about.’_

You close your eyes and press your fingertips to the corner of your mouth, chasing the ghost of his lips on your skin.

_Hope._

* * *

“It’s for you.”

“Uh… You sure? Why would someone call your cell to-”

“Here, just-”

“Oh, uh, shit… shit, okay, but I… What do I…”

“Just swipe and it’ll…”

“Right. Okay. Thanks. I’ll just... Yeah.”

“I’ll go for a walk, let you two talk.”

“Oh, no. Kare, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine. Quick, before it-”

_“Karen?”_

“ _Shit!_... Hey, uh… Hey.”

_“… It’s you.”_

“… It’s me.”

“…”

“…”

“Sorry, did you _want_ Karen, or-”

_“No! No, I, uh… I wanted to… y’know… Talk. To you. I just didn’t expect you to be the one to…”_

“Yeah, me either, but she kinda shoved the phone in my face, so…”

_“That right?”_

“Mhmm.”

_“Bet she’s sick of my ugly ass callin’ her, huh? Fed up of me owin’ her favors she don’t cash in?”_

“Somethin’ like that, yeah… You’re hard work, Castle. Real clingy type, y’know? Can’t seem to get rid of you.”

“…”

“Shit, that wasn’t a dig, I’m sor-”

_“Bit early in the evening to be bustin’ my balls, ain’t it?”_

“I thought you liked it when I play with your balls?”

_“… Fuck, that’s… I… uh… shit. Yeah. Yeah, you, uh… Damn.”_

“Wow… is the Punisher actually _blushing?_ ”

_“I… You… You’re really somethin’, you know that?”_

“You, uh… You may’ve mentioned it once or twice. While I was, y’know, with your…”

_“Christ, are you trying to fuckin’ kill me?”_

“Not today. Quite like you alive, so…”

_“Mm.”_

“Mm… but, um, you were saying? Before? About Karen?”

_“Yeah, uh… are you two… are you busy? I’m not, uh, I’m not interruptin’ nothin’ or…”_

“God, no! No! We’re just… we’re just sorta _being_ tonight, y’know? Keeping each other company. It’s… nice. Girl time, ‘n all that… But, um… This is… You’re not interrupting, so… Don’t-Don’t hang up or anything? I wanna talk. I’ll leave your balls out of it, I promise.”

_“Good, I’m… I’m glad the two of you… I’m… I’m glad. And, uh… maybe later for the balls, yeah?”_

“Mm. Maybe.”

“…”

“…”

_“Shit, I… I’m really bad at this, ain’t I? Fuckin’ call you, then… Shit, I…”_

“You’re fine, honest, it’s…”

_“Nah, I didn’t really… I didn’t think this through, shoulda thought what I was gonna say or-”_

“Frank… Hearing your voice is… it’s enough, okay? You don’t need to... we don’t… we’ve never been ones for talking much, so… That ain’t gotta change, y’know? It doesn’t have to be any different, just ‘cause… just ‘cause of what… uh…”

_“…”_

“Frank? You still there?”

 _“M’here. I just… Shit, you- you got no idea how… how much I’ve needed… except I… I guess you- guess you do, huh? Now? After…_ ”

“Yeah… I know. And you, uh… you know I…”

_“Yeah.”_

“Good.”

_“Good.”_

“…”

“…”

“I, uh, I’ve been meaning to say thanks, by the way. For the books? They… they’ve helped.”

_“Yeah?”_

“Mhmm. Made the time go much faster, you know? Havin’ something to…”

_“Take your mind off things?”_

“… Yeah.”

_“Good. That’s… I wanted you t-… I wanted to give you somethin’. I know it ain’t easy, bein’ alone.”_

“No. It’s not. But I’m not the only one, am I? You feel it too.”

_“…”_

“…”

_“All the time.”_

“Frank…”

_“Listen, I’m… I’m gonna try’n stop by tomorrow. In the mornin’? Is that… is that okay? If I…”_

“Of cour-… Yes. Yes. Please, you… You can come by. Please, I’d… I’d like that. A lot. Just… I can’t, y’know… I can’t _go_ anywhere without…”

_“Shoes. Right. I can bring you some. Yeah? I’ll… I’ll bring you some.”_

“Okay.”

_“Okay.”_

“…”

“…”

“So, I guess, I’ll, uh… I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

_“See you in the mornin’.”_

“…”

“…”

“Frank?”

_“Mm?”_

“Stay safe.”

_“You too, Sweetheart… You too.”_

* * *

You lie awake until the 05:15 alarm.

Get out of bed.

Make it.

Fluff the pillows.

Shower.

Towel dry your hair.

Get dressed.

Brew a cup of coffee.

Drink it.

Pace.

Have another.

Pace.

Wash up.

Sit on the couch.

Fidget.

Stand up.

Take a deep breath.

Plump the couch cushions.

Fold the blanket.

Pace.

Pee.

Wash your hands.

Check the fridge.

Wipe down the counters.

Sit back on the couch

And _breathe._

* * *

He knocks on the door at six-thirty, armed with a pair of shoes and a tired smile.

_(It's something.)_


	11. Places (we won’t be found)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we got a puppy for the first time 2 days after the last chapter, and holy shit... I underestimated how much time you can let them take up when you love them like we love our little pup pup! He's an English Cocker Spaniel, and anyone who knows that breed knows how crazy they can get... and how fast they grow... wish us luck!
> 
> It's not been until today, while off work sick from flu, that I finally had the time to sit down and finish writing this chapter for you, and while it's a little... slower, than initially planned, I think it's actually not that slow at all for these two, so I hope you like it. (Just in time for Valentine's Day, too.)
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your comments - I will reply to last chapter's very shortly, but figured getting this out would be preferable first since it's been a few weeks. And thank you SO much to those who donated, as I honestly didn't expect that. You guys just... yeah. Thank you. It means more than I can say.
> 
> Love you all, and please let me know what you think,  
> Soph x

Being outside after spending so long cooped up in the safe-house is… refreshing, to say the least.

It’s cold, almost bitter out, so you shove your hands in your back pockets to stave off the chill as you wait for Frank to finish locking the main door. You hadn’t really been fully conscious when he’d carried you inside all that time ago, so it’s strange to see the place from the outside like this.

You’ve known all along that you’d be in a quiet part of the city – there’s never been any doubt about that – but if you’ve got your bearings right like you think you do, then you’re not as isolated from everything as you expected to be. It makes sense, really; the more safe-houses he has scattered around, the more places he can retreat to in an emergency, but it’s almost jarring to have felt so alone for so long only to find out you aren’t in the middle of nowhere, after all.

You turn your face to the breeze and sigh, enjoying the harsh sting against your skin. The fresh air feels good enough that even the sour scent of the city it brings with it settles something within you that you can’t quite identify, and you find yourself letting your eyes fall shut as you breathe it in.

But then warmth spreads across your lower back as a hand presses against it, and the unexpected contact makes that same breath catch.

_Frank._

Your eyes flutter open as your lips part, and the graze of his thumb over your spine is enough to shoot a fucking _firework_ along your nerves.

He’s never done something like that out in the open before. Not like _this_. Not without a reason.

Never just to _touch._

“Hey.”

You swallow thickly and twist your head to catch his gaze, then inhale a soft gasp when he uses his hand to guide you toward him, turning you a few degrees until your side is pressed against his.

“You alright?”

Are you _alright?_

Jesus… He has no fucking clue, does he?

With a fond smile curving your lips, you pull your hand free from your pocket and allow yourself to reach across and gently touch his stomach with the backs of your fingertips, furthering the contact. Real. Tangible.

(He’s here.

You’re not alone.

And that’s _everything.)_

His muscles twitch in the hint of a shiver, barely detectable beneath his jacket.

(He feels it, too.)

“I’m good,” you tell him truthfully after a moment passes of just your gaze on his. “Are you?”

He looks down at your hand, lingering there just long enough for you to catch the motion, then exhales a slow breath before dipping his chin in the smallest of nods.

You let your fingers curl ever so slightly into his jacket, reluctant to break whatever _this_ is, and softly ask, “Did you wanna go anywhere in particular, or…?”

“I, uh…” He tips his head vaguely to your right. Keeps you close with that hand steady on your back. “I promised Nancy I’d bring you by…  Diner ain’t that far, so… figured you’d wanna walk, you know? Make the most of…” His free hand gestures at your feet as he trails off, your gaze automatically following.

“Yeah,” you agree, wiggling your toes in your new shoes reflexively.

_(Weather-proof. Comfy. A perfect fit.)_

When you look up at him again, his eyes are soft, expression even more so, and it makes your cheeks flush. “S-sounds good.”

“Good,” he echoes with a glance to your mouth, then catches himself with the slightest shake of his head before suggesting, “Do you, uh, you wanna…?”

You nod slowly in agreement, distracted, then bite down on your bottom lip for a moment, debating with yourself.

_Don’t startle him. Don’t push. Don’t cross a line._

_He’s here. He’s trying. He wants this._

You push yourself up on your toes to kiss his cheek and linger there just long enough to feel his fingers curve into the small of your back before lowering your heels back to the ground and tucking your hair behind your ear, suddenly nervous.

“Wh…” He trails off, but doesn’t look offended, just… shit, you don’t even know what to call it.

Surprised?

Pleased?

_Hopeful?_

“Thank you,” you murmur before you can overthink things. “For doing this. I, uh… appreciate it.”

His expression changes then. Softens. Morphs. Reveals.

“It’s nothin’,” he deflects, and your own face must spill its secret then because he immediately continues, “Hey, don’t… Don’t act like… This ain’t… This ain’t some favour, yeah? This is how it should be; you shouldn’t… _I_ shouldn’t be keepin’ you locked up like some prisoner. I never shoulda-”

“Frank,” you scold lightly with a shake of your head, then reach up to rest your fingers over his lips to quiet him. He stills instantly. “I know.”

You feel the puff of air he breathes ghost against your skin, his shoulders sinking from their tense raise in the process, and gently brush your fingertips over his bottom lip. Drawn in by something you can’t place, you sway towards him, then close your eyes as your foreheads meet, lips mere inches apart and separated only by your fingers.

You swallow hard, revelling in the moment, but manage to catch yourself before you do anything too brash, fingertips glancing off the barest hint of stubble as they drop back to your side. “C’mon.”

Frank makes a low, almost silent sound in his throat that sounds like acquiescence, then nudges his nose against yours before lifting his head to press his lips to your forehead.

The tenderness of it has your fingers gripping his waist, like they alone might be enough to hold onto _this_. And yet, it burns. Aches. Too much, but not enough.

_Fuck._

“After you,” he gravels out, and you don’t need to look up to know he’s gazing over the top of your head, lost in something you can’t bear to think about.

You squeeze him closer for half a second, then take a much-needed step back and tip your head to the right in a silent question.

He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching a little, but as soon as you start to move in the direction indicated, he falls in half a pace behind you, a comforting presence even with the tension clouding the air like a brewing storm between your bodies.

 

 

(You always have found lightning beautiful.)

* * *

The journey to the diner is quiet. Slow.

He doesn’t talk much and neither do you, but it isn’t awkward.

Instead, you’re content to drift into step with each other, side by side now, and watch the city slowly start to awaken around you; lights blooming through curtains, people bustling for their morning coffee, cars heading out to begin the daily rush…

It’s nice. Being together, yet separate.

You barely even notice the cold, warm as you feel from it all.

Frank does, though.

The second time you absently rub your biceps to fight off the chill, he’s there, stripping off his jacket and tucking it over your shoulders before you even realize why he’s done so. You turn to look at him in surprise, only to be met with a stern look and a raised eyebrow that betrays exactly how well he knows you; a protest is on the tip of your tongue, after all.

You consider him for a moment, then bring your hands up to hold the fabric around you and give him a soft, grateful smile in thanks. The one he gives you back in return warms you more than the jacket ever could, though you can tell he’s surprised you haven’t argued your point. If you’re honest, so are you, but if the last few weeks have taught you anything (and they have), it’s that some fights just aren’t worth having.

Other fights, however…

_(I know where this leads, yeah? This thing?_

_I don’t need you to do both. I just need this.)_

You nudge your shoulder against his as turn your attention back to the sidewalk, and pull your bottom lip between your teeth to keep in the happy sound that tries to escape when he presses back against you, maintaining the contact while you continue to walk.

Separate, yet together.

 

 

(So fucking worth it.)

* * *

As you turn onto the final block, your steps slow slightly, anxiety rising in your chest like a slow, churning wave, but then Franks hand finds it place on your lower back again and the silent coaxing urges your feet to keep going.

_We know all about_ you, _Baby…_

_You’d think he doesn’t care about you at all._

It’s ridiculous to even be thinking about _them_ right now, to be wondering how much of your routine they know, whether they ever followed you here, regardless of how far in the back of your mind those thoughts may lie.

Nothing’s going to happen to you, not on Frank’s watch, even if there were many of them left alive to try.

(You won’t ask him to confirm that, though. Some things are best left unsaid.)

Clearing your throat to dislodge the lump that’s taken up residence there, you shoot Frank a grateful smile over your shoulder and let him guide you closer to the diner, its familiar illuminated signage a homing beacon that you can’t ignore.

Once you’re right outside, Frank steps forward to open the door for you before easing you through with a hand on your waist, this time, thick fingers a gentle curve over the fabric of his jacket. Despite yourself, you flush, murmuring a _thank you_ as you pass, then shiver as the heat from inside washes over you, warm and welcome as always.

You’ve missed this place.

“I’ll be right out!” Nancy calls from out back, and you smile to yourself as you hear her bustling around in a rhythm you hadn’t even known you’d memorized until now.

_Three…_

_Two…_

“Sorry about that – what can I get-” Nancy freezes in place, eyes widening as she takes in the sight of you and Frank, side by side and right in front of her. “- you?”

Suddenly overtaken by emotion, you shyly raise your hand in a sorry excuse for a wave, then tuck your hair behind you ear with a sheepish half-smile as she blinks dumbly at you.

“Wh…” Nancy starts, then trails off with a disbelieving shake of her head, gaze turning fierce like she can _see_ the healed wounds that had littered your body that night. “Oh, _Sweetheart_.”

She crosses the diner in a matter of seconds, sweeping you up into a hug that makes tears well hot and fast in your eyes as you cling onto her just as tight.

“When you stopped showing up, I _knew_ something was wrong,” she murmurs into your hair, cupping the back of your head with her palm. “I’ve been so worried about you…”

“I’ve been worried about me, too,” you confess in a whisper, then pull back and try to give her a reassuring smile. “And I’ve been missing your coffee something fierce.”

“Bullshit,” Nancy retorts, but her eyes are glistening and her tone betrays the fear she’d felt; fear you would never have expected be for _you_. “The only person who misses my coffee is _this_ asshole.”

Frank’s lips curve into a hint of a smile at the jab and he steps closer behind you, giving Nancy a respectful nod. “Ma’am.”

Nancy’s eyes flit between the two of you, almost too quick to notice, but the look she gives you when you meet her gaze is enough to make you feel hot in the face; she knows something’s changed.

You give her the tiniest shake of your head, urging her not to comment, but Nancy has never let you down before and isn’t going to start now, so she just smiles and sighs softly before gently reaching out to touch your upper arm so her thumb can graze over Frank’s jacket in silent acknowledgement. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Nance,” you reply warmly, then jolt when your back bumps into Frank’s chest; you hadn’t even realized you were leaning into him, let alone been intending to.

Instead of moving away completely, though, he takes another step forward and slightly to the side, gesturing to your usual table with the hand that isn’t currently slipping its way under his jacket to rest in its favorite spot over your spine. “You mind if we…?”

Nancy looks up at Frank, assessing, then tilts her head in encouragement before moving behind the two of you to flip the OPEN sign at the door to CLOSED.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do…” Your mouth snaps shut at the glare Nancy shoots you, and you almost miss the grateful look Frank gives her in return.

“You two’ve paid more in tips the past few months than I bring in on a good day, and today ain’t a good day,” she interjects firmly. “Half hour of peace and quiet ain’t gonna break the bank.”

You feel that lump rise up in your throat again and can barely even nod in thanks, but Frank manages a quiet ‘ _thank you, Ma’am’_ before guiding you over to your booth and sliding in opposite you; a perfect mirror of all those times _before._

Before talking became part of your mutual agenda.

Before you began to know his mind as well as his body.

Before…

Your leg starts to bounce restlessly beneath the table while your fingers tap against the surface of it as Nancy busies herself making a pot of coffee. You glance up at Frank, then follow his gaze out the window to stare at the passers-by who remain oblivious to the watchful eyes upon them.

Before your uncle barrelled his way back into your life.

Before _Frank_ was the only one looking out for your safety.

Before you _needed_ Frank to look out for your safety.

Your bottom lip stings as your teeth sink into it, but then Frank’s ankles lock around yours and his fingers reach out to still your incessant fluttering, lingering just long enough for you to look back to him in shock before retreating into his lap.

You cringe, realizing how annoying that must’ve been. “Sorry.”

“You don’t gotta be nervous, yeah?” he mumbles, glancing outside again before settling his focus back on you. “Micro’s got every camera in a two-block radius in his pocket; ain’t nobody gonna sneak up on us.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, unable to stop your fingers twisting into his jacket just to stave off the jittery compulsions vibrating along your nerves. “Yeah, I know.”

The two of you fall into another comfortable silence as the coffee finishes brewing, but it’s weighted down by all the memories you can’t ignore, sat together like this again; some bad, and others…

_Adrenaline rush. The thick drag of him inside you. Gentle comfort. Brick scraping. Calming moments. Legs flexing. Shared smiles._

The clink of Nancy placing your cup on the table in front of you startles you from your reverie, but the sight of that familiar chip in the handle settles you enough to get you focused on the present again.

(That’s what matters, now, isn’t it? The present?)

“Thank you,” you murmur, happily taking the warming cup in your hands once she fills it as Frank reaches for his own and prepares to take a sip. You have to divert your gaze to hide your amusement.

_Fucking asbestos mouth._

After Nancy heads back to the kitchen, probably to prep your usual breakfast order, Frank lets out a sigh that’s tinged half with frustration and half with worry, then shifts in his seat before leaning forward with his elbows braced on the table. “Listen, if being here is too-”

“Who’s Micro?” you blurt out as you frown down at your hands, running over his last few statements in your head, albeit several minutes too late. Better than trying to dwell on something that no longer matters. “Is he…” You lift your gaze to meet his, watch the surprise flicker across his face. “Is he your… guy in the chair?”

His response is one of genuine confusion. “My _what?”_

“Guy in the chair,” you repeat, though it comes out as more of a question than anything. You run your fingertip along the rim of your cup. “Y’know… Tech guy? The one who, uh… sits in some dingy warehouse somewhere while the action guy does his thing? Or is he… Is he like you? A, uh.. you know…”

“Guy in the ch…” Frank mumbles disbelievingly, brows furrowed. “Jesus, what…” He hesitates, thinking it through, then then wipes his hand over his face in a poor attempt to smother a laugh. “Shit. Shit, that’s… Okay. Yeah. Yeah, he ain’t… He ain’t a marine, he… _Fuck,_ he’s…”

“Your guy in the chair,” you realize, smiling as Frank’s laugh turns lighter, almost surprised in itself. “I was right.”

He smiles warmly at you, eyes alight with something you’ve rarely had the chance to see outside… well, his _truck._ “You better hope he didn’t just hear you say that.”

“I doubt he could’ve,” you tease conspiratorially, casting your gaze around the diner. “I don’t think that camera over there’s worked since 1984.”

“That right?” he murmurs with a low chuckle, though you know there’s more to this than just a playful volley of jabs at his – colleague’s…? Friend’s…? Ally’s…? – _guy in the chair’s_ expense. It’s an exercise in testing the waters, in figuring out the new boundaries between you and adapting to them, and that... Well, that’s a good thing.

You have no idea how successful it’s turning out to be so far, but Frank seems satisfied, for he takes another slug of coffee and looks briefly outside again in that habitual way you hadn’t realized happens as often as it does until now. Scanning. Ensuring. Securing.

Protecting.

It makes you wonder…

“If Micro’s got the city’s surveillance in his pocket…” You hesitate, debating with yourself whether this is going to be a push too far, then continue, “Does that mean he has cameras in the safe-house, too?”

Frank instantly stills, except for his index finger, which starts to flutter against the side of his cup.

Well… that answers that, then.

“Wow,” you mumble down to your lap, letting that sink in. “That… Okay.”

With hands that tremble more than they should, you lift your cup to your mouth, then wince at the scalding heat that passes your lips.

Frank grimaces. “Look, I-”

“Did you…” You take a deep breath, then heave a sigh before prying, “Did you _watch_ me…?”

You look down at the table as your mind starts spiralling.

_(Jesus, how much might he have seen?)_

“I asked Micro to do it,” he rumbles out, sounding ashamed. “Just to… look out for you, while I was… but I … I didn’t wanna… was easier, not knowin’.”

As you process the reality of his revelation, you take another sip of your coffee, but this time you use the burn to help you focus.

Are you really that surprised? That he would be keeping an eye on you from afar while he saved your life?

_(No. You’re not. But that doesn’t make it any less strange to hear him admit that.)_

“Did…” You pause, bracing yourself for the chance that maybe, just maybe… “Did he ever… _show_ you anything?”

Frank clenches his jaw, unable to meet your gaze as he confesses, “Once.”

“Oh.” You blink at him, stunned, then feel dread curl heavily in your stomach. “When?”

“Look, I- I didn’t _ask_ him, he just…”

Something in his tone has you shifting backwards in your seat as your heart starts to pound.

“When.”

His eyes are almost pleading when they catch yours.

“Frank.”

His response is low, regretful… “Your birthday.”

Your eyes clamp shut and you can’t stop yourself recoiling against the back of the booth, almost dropping your cup in the process.

_Mug shattering. Tears weeping. Curled up on the couch._

“I didn’t know,” he grinds out thickly. “I didn’t know it was… I had no idea until he…”

You bite your tongue hard. Blink away the sting in your eyes.

He reaches across the table to touch your hand.

“Sweetheart…”

Gritting your teeth hard against all the curses that want to escape, all the bitterness you’ve kept inside… you fight the urge to move away. Not until you _know._

“You didn’t come,” you manage to get out. Not an accusation. Just a statement. “That night. After you saw… you didn’t… you still stayed away.”

“Yes,” he admits roughly, though what else could he say? You both know it’s the truth.

You hold his gaze, almost defiant in your determination to dig deeper. To get an answer. “Why?”

“I…” His jaw twitches and his fingers pick up their anxious fluttering in double-time. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t ready… for that. After them. It was selfish, but-”

“You decided to wait until you were ready,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“And then you…” Your voice picks up, realization taking hold as the weight on your chest tries to lift. “You _were._ ”

Your index finger curls around his.

“You showed up _,”_ you whisper almost incredulously. “You came back. You… you were ready… to try.”

He opens his mouth to speak, then jerks upright when a clatter from the kitchen makes you both jump, his hand instinctively going to his waistband.

“It’s okay! It’s just me! Sorry!” Nancy calls out and the two of you exhale a tense breath, hearts pounding and adrenaline pumping in preparation to fight a threat that isn’t there.

“Christ,” Frank mutters, brow furrowed so deeply you have to fight the urge to smooth it with your fingers.

“I forgive you,” you blurt out before any lingering resentment can swallow the words. Frank’s lips part, ready to response, but you quickly cut in, “It was a dick move. What you did, the way you… the way you ignored me, it was a shitty thing to do, but… I get it. It’s not easy. _This_ won’t _ever_ be easy _._ So, I… I’m glad. That you waited. Because when you… when you showed up that night… and, and even today, when you… it’s because you wanted to. Not because you felt you had to… right?”

He gives a strained nod, expression so full of _everything_ that it’s hard to read. “Yeah.”

You nod back, squeeze his ankles with your own, then give him a shaky smile.

“Okay.”

He lets out a long, relieved sigh, then tightens his grip on your fingers, threading them together in a way that makes your bruised heart heal, ever so slightly.

“Okay.”

 

 

(You stay that way until Nancy brings out your breakfasts. It’s _more_ than okay.)


	12. Heavy (in your arms)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was way harder than it should've been to start with, and then I realised that was because some things needed to be said between these two in order for the rest to flow, so...
> 
> Thanks so much, as always, for all your comments - please keep them coming, as they really give me the boosts I sometimes need to push through the bad writing days! xx

Your time together isn’t always so heavy.

And you do spend some together, now.

Short, sweet doses, sure, but also _real._

_(You’re still struggling to wrap your head around that; even when you’re expecting him to knock at the door, the sight of him there on the other side makes your heart seem to fall over itself every time._

_You’ll get there. Eventually.)_

His visits aren’t daily, but they were never going to be; you’ve always known that. You meant it when you said you don’t need more than he’s able to give, and you know he makes it to the safe-house as often as he can, no matter if it means he has to pull another all-nighter just to be able to see you for a short while. Hell, _anything_ is better than nothing, especially once that anything starts to develop into a routine.

Something you can rely on; a pattern you can trust.

 

 

Just like him.

* * *

Most mornings, he shows up freshly bruised with a shy smile and an offer to take you for breakfast, where you discuss the latest chapter you’ve read of one of his books, or even occasionally share tales of your experiences in the city. Both of you skirt around the negative parts of each of your histories, instead choosing to tell stories that are light-hearted or will make the other laugh – and what a beautiful, _beautiful_ laugh he has, too, all genuine and soft with a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle – and the few hours you have together seem to disappear in a matter of seconds.

You treasure every single one of those laughs.

 

 

_(Family will always be a tough one for the two of you. It’s nice not to have to think about it, even if only for a little while. You hope it provides the same relief for him, too.)_

* * *

Other mornings, he doesn’t even cross the threshold before greeting you with a silent offer of a to-go cup, and once you get your boots on the two of you often end up walking several blocks before even uttering a word to each other, content as you are in the silence. With the steaming coffee in the to-go cup warming your hands and his shoulder nudging yours with every few steps, you’re free to enjoy the relative freedom of being side by side once more, and that’s all it takes to settle the anxieties that build up while you’re apart.

Though neither of you will ever be able to fully relax, no matter how much you may want to, knowing you’re under Micro’s ever-watchful gaze as you walk brings you pretty close to it.

_(That’s another thing you’re still wrapping your head around; at the safe-house, you keep finding yourself glancing up at the ceiling as you go about your day, finding that one spot in the corner of your kitchen Frank’s gaze often strays to, and then when you’re outside you catch yourself looking skyward, homing in on every camera, every potential viewpoint, without realizing you’re doing it._

_No matter how well you understand the reasons why the constant surveillance is necessary, it still takes a lot to force your stiffened muscles to relax and carry on like it’s nothing._

_It’s not easy._

_Not even close.)_

* * *

Some mornings, though… some rare, _painful_ mornings… there’s a familiar, haunting darkness in his eyes when you open the door that he doesn’t even attempt to hide. Not from you. Not anymore.

You never ask what’s caused it.

You don’t need to.

Instead, you immediately usher him inside, fingertips finding his bicep the moment he’s close enough, and draw him into a tight hug.

_(You know.)_

He doesn’t always return the hug right away, but that’s okay; you just squeeze his broken pieces together with everything you’ve got anyway until he eventually heaves a heavy sigh as some of them finally, _finally,_ stick back into place.

You stay at home, those mornings.

Just you and him, curled up on opposite sides of the couch, drinking coffee until his eyes start to droop and he forces himself to his feet once more.

Watching him leave is never harder than it is in those moments, but you never stop him.

The only person who can put back the rest of those pieces is him.

 

 

You hope he finds enough peace to sleep, soon; the exhaustion on his face never leaves, no matter what kind of morning it is.

* * *

Karen’s visits start to become less frequent once work starts to pick up for her, but between the sporadic company from both her and Frank and the book collection you’re steadily working your way through, the time you spend alone stops feeling so heavy, too.

It’s strange, not having the routine of going to work or the gym like before, but you’re learning to enjoy the freedom that comes with your willing captivity, as ridiculous as it seems. There’s less pressure, now – no consequences to having a lie-in apart from feeling better-rested, no deadlines to meet for Simon (the prick), no noisy neighbors or shitty landlords to deal with, no more having to worry about the fridge being stocked despite only keeping semi-regular mealtimes…

You never used to understand how people could live life without routines, but after spending so long living this way, as weird as it may have been at the start, you know it’s going to be hard adjusting back to the norm once this is all over. You’ve been okay in your own company for most your life – you’ve had to be – but for the first time in a very long time (perhaps _eve_ r), you actually start to _like_ it.

You start to like _yourself._

The idea of coming back to an empty apartment after a day working at an empty job and having nobody in your life to talk to just like before, it… it sits like a damn _boulder_ on your shoulders, cold and unfeeling, and you can’t bear the weight.

And _that’s_ the scary part of all this, isn’t it?

How are you supposed to go back to that?

How are you _ever_ going to be okay with stepping back into those shoes, all the while knowing first-hand that your life doesn’t have to be an empty one?

More importantly, why _should_ you?

 

 

 _(You may not have to,_ you ponder as your gaze catches on the boxes of Frank’s things. _Maybe… Just maybe… you might find a new norm.)_

* * *

 

“You do realize Karen’s gonna run out of groceries to conveniently need at the store one of these days, right?”

Frank chuckles on the other end of the line, the sound warm and soft. _“That the excuse she gave?”_

“Uh-huh. Barely gave me a chance to catch the phone after she threw it before heading out – I don’t think she even put a coat on first,” you tell him, stirring the pot of pasta sauce you’ve been cooking – sans the herbs Karen’s tasked herself with getting. You’re not stupid; she’s only gone out to give you and Frank some privacy. Same as she always does when he calls. “At least it’s better than the one she used last time, I guess.”

 _“Yeah?”_ His amusement is clear as day. _“What was that?”_

You switch Karen’s cell to your other ear and reach for the red wine on the counter, opening the bottle while the phone stays sandwiched between your face and shoulder.

“She left something for work her car so had to go get it. Like, immediately.” You pour out a glass, then add most of it to the sauce before having a mouthful of the rest; chef’s perks, right? “Took her half an hour to come back, spouting some story about a lady with a cute dog distracting her.”

_“Karen does love dogs…”_

“Yeah,” you agree with a soft laugh, “which is why I almost believed her.” You give the pot a final stir, then move over to the couch with the nearly empty wine glass in hand. “Only thing is… She left her car keys on the counter.”

Frank’s groan makes you smile to yourself; you can almost see him shaking his head in your mind’s eye.

You take another sip of wine as you settle against the cushions before glancing up at the corner of the kitchen where you know the camera lies. “Point is… there _is_ an easier way to do this, you know.”

_“…”_

“Not that I’m not glad we can have this; it’s more than I thought we’d get but…” You drop your gaze. “I dunno. Just wish….”

 _“Don’t,”_ he cuts in, though it’s more of a plea than a command. _“You know it’s… I can’t risk…”_

You let out a soft sigh, resignation heavy in your stomach. “I know.”

_“If they found a way to track your cell…”_

“I know.”

_“I got the ones from that goddamn warehouse, but Mouse is still out there and if he tells the rest of ‘em your num-”_

“Frank. I know.”

His protest trails off at your tone, but the frustration he feels still seeps through the huff of breath he exhales through his nose.

Is it really so wrong to want to have a way of communicating with him without having to rely on someone else?

 _(Yes,_ you realize, _when you know how hard it is for him to deny you both that.)_

You feel insanely guilty for bringing it up, now, especially once you process what he just let slip.

“You, uh…” You bite your bottom lip, suddenly a little choked up. “You really got ‘em all? The ones who…”

His voice turns dark. _“They ain’t ever gonna hurt you again. I made sure of it.”_

Your own voice catches in your throat. “Frank…”

 _“Look, I…”_ He mutters something under his breath. _“I think you oughta know, the rest of ‘em? The ones we found that knew about what happened? Helped orchestrate it? They’re gone too. I know you ain’t safe yet, but…”_

“The ones that matter most are dead,” you finish for him, and fuck if saying that out loud doesn’t make all this shit seem more real, somehow. “You killed them. For me.”

 _“It was gonna be you or them,”_ he justifies, even though he doesn’t have to. _“I chose them.”_

His words hang in the air, circle around your head…

He makes it sound so simple. Like choosing between murdering over a dozen people or risking your safety was as easy as choosing between breakfast cereals.

_(Except there never was any choice to make, was there? Not for him. Not about you.)_

“I…” You swallow thickly, unsure you’ll be able to say what you feel without fucking it up. “So they’re… y’know. But Mouse, uh… Mouse is…”

 _“Alive,_ ” he confirms quietly, if not a little bitterly. _“For now.”_

“Right.” Something close to nausea rises in your throat. “Alive.”

 _“Yeah.”_ He hesitates; his turn to make a counter-move this time. _“Figured killing him was off the table since…_ ”

You close your eyes briefly and tip your head back against the couch, letting the phone drop to your collarbone for a moment as you catch your breath.

He knows.

You’re not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

Bringing the wine glass to your lips, you swallow the rest of the liquid before lifting the phone again.

Time to face the music.

“Since he’s my uncle?”

The sound Frank makes is almost relieved, like he was waiting for you to deny it. Hide it. _“Yeah.”_

You process that for a moment.

“You’ve known who he is for…”

 _“A while,”_ he admits lowly. “ _Micro worked it out pretty quick. Ran facial recognition on the footage from outside your apartment block, starting the night you were...”_

The thought of him seeing any of what happened sends a chill up your spine.

“How much of that did you…”

 _“Enough to make putting them down seem too merciful,”_ he replies roughly, sounding a little like something’s caught in his throat. _“We, uh… spotted you leavin’ in a hurry the night before. Saw him leave soon after… Flagged it as strange but didn’t piece it together ‘til Micro found you arriving together a few days earlier.”_

“And then you ran his face. Got a hit on him from his… mugshot? Matched the surname to my mom’s maiden one?” you assume, then nod to yourself when he murmurs a sound of assent. “Course you did. Micro looked me up.”

There’s a pause, then. One that’s loaded enough to make you regret starting this.

_“Why didn’t you tell me?”_

“Tell you what?” you mumble as guilt starts to bore a hole in your stomach. “Which part?”

He scoffs, and something about the sound just _gets_ to you.

“Which _part_ , Frank?” you grit out as tears sting at your eyes. “You gotta be a _bit_ more specific here, ‘cause we never used to fuckin’ talk about _anything_ , let alone shit like _that_ , did we? Makes it hard to work out what you’re referrin’ to, so are you asking about the part where I knew his history with drugs but stupidly thought I could help him anyway? The part where he stole all my money and literally _threw_ me outta my apartment as a thank you a few weeks later?” You let out a sad, bitter laugh that ends with your cheeks becoming damp. “O-Or you could always be referring to the part where I knew all along that _he’s_ the reason those men almost killed me, I guess, but since you locked me away like fuckin’ Rapunzel instead of _asking me_ if I had any idea why they decided to tortur-”

 _“I’m talking about any of it! All of it!”_ he snaps right back as you faintly register the sound of his hand smacking something solid. _“I saw you outside the diner that night, for Christ’s sake! You knew he was bad news, you_ knew _something was going on, but you_ chose _to keep walking anyway! Jesus, did you really think so fucking little of us that asking me for help was off the Goddamn table? Did you honestly think I could ever say no to you?”_

You barely manage to smother a sob, hand flying up to cover your mouth at the harsh reality of his words. It’s been so easy to keep it all buried, so easy to avoid the blame, but now…

Oh, fuck.

Oh, _fuck._

Just as quickly as his anger comes, it ebbs away again, his voice softening to a gentle rumble as he continues, “ _What was it that made you hide that shit from me? Huh?”_

“I…” The words won’t come. “You…”

 _“Were you worried I’d kill him like the others if I knew?”_ Frank probes, like he’s bracing himself for another argument. When you don’t immediately reply, his tone shifts, turns thoughtful. “ _Or were you worried that I wouldn’t?”_

You have to clear your throat awkwardly to dislodge the lump of self-loathing in it. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

 

 

(It’s the first real lie you’ve ever told him.)

* * *

When you startle awake at 3AM the next morning, you scramble from the bed, panting and sweating, and somehow manage to make it to the toilet just in time to empty the limited contents of your stomach into it as shivers start to wrack your entire body.

_Just a dream. Just a dream._

With a soft groan, you rest your forehead against the cold seat and murmur the character names from the new book you’re reading under your breath, trying to match your breathing to the slow pace of your list in a poor attempt to focus on _something_ other than the memory of knuckles cracking across your face. The shock of punches to your solar plexus. The snap of your ribs beneath brute force.

You haven’t had a nightmare like that for a while; you packed all those memories up in a box and shoved them away with all the other bad shit in your life at the back of your mind, never to be touched again, pretty much as soon as it happened.

It’s a technique that’s been working. For the most part.

Now, though?

Now, your skin is _crawling_ with the ghost of their hands on you, inflicting pain wherever they went. Your ribs ache with it. Your lips sting like they’re red raw.

_Don’t think. Don’t remember. Don’t-_

You retch again as tears stream down your cheeks, then press a hand to your pounding heart like that’s going to stop it from beating out your chest.

_Shit._

_Shitshitshit._

_This is all your fault, this is-_

An animalistic moan escapes your mouth, unbidden and pained.

_OhGodOhGodOhGod._

The room is stifling, all of a sudden. Unbearable.

_You need to get out._

With a sob breaching your lips, you push yourself to unsteady feet and stumble back to the bed in a panic, before grabbing whatever clothes you can and hastily shoving them on.

It takes you three attempts to get your arms through Frank’s shirt sleeves.

You put your boots on the wrong feet.

Your zipper jams.

 

You don’t have it in you to care.

* * *

Walking doesn’t help.

Every shadow makes you jump.

Every person you see is a threat.

You lose track of where you are.

You can’t stop.

Can’t go back.

Except…

The next time you look up, you’re half a block away from your apartment.

The shock makes you stumble, feet stalling before the rest of your body gets the memo.

Your palms sting crisply as they scrape the sidewalk and your knees jar from the impact, but that’s nothing compared to the pain of holding in the sudden, overwhelming urge to _scream._

 

(You may have swallowed down that self-loathing earlier, but now you’re fucking _drowning_ in it.)

* * *

You make it to the diner.

Just.

One look at your face has Nancy leading you through to the back, away from any prying eyes.

You can’t speak, can’t even say hello, but she doesn’t push you; she simply puts you in the tiny closet-like space that acts as her office before hurrying off with a muttered, “Be right back.”

Bracing your elbows on your knees, you bury your face in your hands and try not to break down while you wait for her to get back.

What the fuck are you _doing?_

You should’ve stayed at the safe-house.

You certainly shouldn’t’ve come _here._

God, leaving was such a stupid idea.

How are you supposed to get back in?

What if Frank shows up and notices you’re gone?

What’s he going to think?

 _Fuck_ , you should’ve-

“Here, Sweetheart.”

You startle violently at the sudden presence of another person, then mumble an apology to Nancy before numbly accepting a cup of steaming… _tea?_

“Peppermint,” Nancy explains quietly before you have to ask. “It’ll help.”

You nod absently and curve your hands around the heat, vaguely aware in some disconnected part of your brain that you’re trembling.

“Does he know you’re here?” she asks tentatively, letting her hand brush your shoulder. It takes all the focus you have not to flinch away.

“I-I-… I don’t…”

“Okay,” she soothes softly like she’s trying to calm a wild animal. In some ways, you are. “Okay.”

“What am I doing?” you breathe with a shake of your head. “What the…”

“You’re having an anxiety attack, Sweetheart,” she murmurs, almost matter-of-factly. The tone takes you out of yourself for a moment, just long enough to make you laugh bitterly.

“Feels like a fuckin’ heart-attack,” you try to joke, but it comes out more like a whimper when you spill some of the tea over your fingers. It’s her floor you’re worried about; you’re too far gone to feel the burn. “Shit, I’m… I’m sorry, I’m-”

“Oh, my Girl,” Nancy sighs as she takes the cup and gathers you into a gentle hug. “You’re okay. You’re okay…”

You can’t help it; you start to weep.

Nancy carefully lets you both sway from side to side as she strokes over your hair, soothing you in a way your mother never has, even when you were a child. The thought makes you hiccup a throaty sob.

After what feels like an infinite amount of time, your tears dry up and your throat seems to have swollen from all the crying, but… it’s like being purged.

You can breathe again. _Think_ again.

And you feel like a fucking idiot.

“Oh, God, Frank’s going to _kill_ me,” you lament, pulling away from Nancy’s hold to swipe your face with the cuffs of… _his_ shirt. Christ.

“I doubt that,” Nancy murmurs knowingly. “Very much.”

You shrug, unsure. “Prob’ly deserve it, after this.”

“No. You don’t,” she disagrees as you look up meet her gaze. Your eyes feel sandy. “You deserve a hug. A proper night’s sleep, too.”

“Can’t sleep tonight.” You shudder at the mere thought of trying. “But one out of two’s not bad, yeah?”

“I didn’t mean from me.” She looks pointedly up at the tiny monitor high on the wall. You follow the gesture and feel your throat tighten even more at the sight of a familiar ball-capped figure in the corner booth. “I meant from him.”

* * *

You wash your face before heading out the front.

It does fuck all to help you look any less distressed, but it does buy you some time before…

You stop dead at the sight of him.

His brow’s furrowed. Concerned. But not angry.

His fingers flutter against his mug. His half-empty mug.

_(He’s been sat there a while, then. Shit.)_

You exhale a steadying breath, then slowly make your way towards him, trying not to feel like you’re heading to the gallows with limited success.

Fingers tugging nervously at the cuffs of his shirt, you wrap your arm around yourself as you finally get within touching distance while your other hand reaches up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

He gives you a once over, eyes taking in everything in that uncanny way they always do, but as soon his gaze meets yours something in him seems to _break._

“M’sorry,” you croak, unable to hide the hitch in your breath. “I just… I…”

He shakes his head minutely, then stands up quicker than you can blink.

His arms band around you half a second later and you realize all at once how it feels to be the one whose broken pieces can be brought back together by the sheer will of someone else.

 

 

He feels like _home._


	13. Lonely Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so excited to get this chapter out there, because some of this was written literal months ago - I've just been waiting for the right moment to include it!
> 
> Thanks, as always, for your wonderful comments - I've been so horrendously ill lately, that having them to read really perked me up even on the worst days.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Soph xx
> 
> PS: mild spoilers for The Punisher are slipped in, though more of a reference than anything major!

_My whole life, I’ve felt like a burden._

_I think too much, and I hate it._

_I'm so used to being in the wrong, I'm tired of caring._

_Loving never gave me a home, so I sit here in the silence._

_I found peace in your violence._

_Can’t tell me there’s no point in trying._

_I’m at one, and I’ve been quiet for too long._

 

The cup of peppermint tea Nancy gave you turns out to be just the thing you need, though you do end up having to drink it cold after… whatever the fuck that was back there. Your hands are still shaking – probably an adrenaline thing, your brain helpfully supplies – but your mind is a lot calmer, which is making it easier to unravel and process everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours. It’s not something you particularly _want_ to think about, really, but if one thing’s become abundantly clear tonight it’s that burying this shit is worse than _not_ burying it, so facing up to the fact that _anxiety attack_ thing happened is kind of your only option.

It’s been a long time coming, you’re beginning to realize, probably even started as far back as the day your uncle arrived on your doorstep; everything that’s happened since has just compounded it more and more, until your conversation with Frank then became the piece of straw to break the proverbial camel’s back.

Shit, that… Yeah. Okay. You can’t bring yourself to be surprised this happened after putting it into perspective like that.

You put your empty cup down on the table and shake your head at your own ability to _denydenydeny_ when it comes to handling this kind of stuff… the hard, gritty _real_ stuff life constantly seems to chuck your way without mercy. You do it every fucking time, and the results are always the same.

You keep everything inside and pretend you’re okay. It breaks you. You freak out.

Simple as that.

Except…

Your heart starts to pound again and you look down at the table as your hands begin to shake even worse than before.

It isn’t _simple_ at all this time, is it?

There were so many ways you _could_ have made it simple.

You could’ve kicked your uncle out as soon as his ‘few days’ were up.

You could’ve called one of your other family members for help. Or got his damn _wife_ to sort him out instead.

You could’ve gone to _Frank_ for help. _Should’ve_ gone to Frank for help.

But you didn’t.

And that, ultimately, was selfish, not selfless, no matter how you try to swing it; you ignored your chances to fix things before they got bad, and then when they blew up you made it worse pretending you were fine, and for what?

You didn’t _spare_ anyone from the fallout.

You didn’t even spare _yourself_.

Instead, Frank has been dragged into this clusterfucky blackhole you’ve created in your own mind, even though he has enough shit of his own to deal with, like coming to terms with the brutal murder of his entire fucking f-

“Whatever’s got your face looking like that… Stop.”

Clenching your jaw, you continue to stare down at the table, unable to meet his gaze.

“Hey…” he coaxes, and you sense him duck his head slightly, trying to catch your eye, but instead of calming you down, his softness only makes more guilt bubble to the surface.

God, you don’t deserve this; you don’t deserve his softness, you should-

“Look,” he murmurs lowly, nudging your leg with his to get your attention. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but-”

“What I’m think-” Your throat cuts out as anger flares hot through you, making tears burn the corner of your eyes. “ _Thinking_  is that you could probably be tracking down a lead on what happened to your family right now, and the only reason you’re not is that I-”

“Hey. No,” Frank chastises as his fingers catch yours beneath the table, ceasing the incessant rhythm you haven’t even been aware you’ve been tapping against your thigh. “Don’t do that shit.”

“You’ve got enough going on, you shouldn’t have to take care of me; that’s not-” You let out a low growl under your breath, fingers trying to pull away reflexively only for his to curl around them tightly enough to stop you. “I shouldn’t be so fucking _weak_ that this shit get on top of-”

“You’re not _weak_. That ain’t the problem, this… this _shit_ , it-” He exhales a frustrated breath. “Christ, it happens to everyone who… who goes through what you… what _we_ have. Yeah?”

 _That_ makes your eyes flick up. The vulnerability on his face in the half-second you manage to look at it makes your breath hitch. _What we have. We._ That’s… that’s big. It’s the first time he’s ever really acknowledged that about himself, that he’s gone through Hell too.

It makes your mind slow; it’s a lot to process.

“Don’t matter how strong you are; it always catches up with you eventually. _Always._ No matter how hard you fight it.” The conviction in his voice hits you deep, makes you _listen._ “This thing, right here? It was inevitable. So stop with the bullshit because you didn’t make me do shit, alright? I _chose_ to come here. I _wanted_ to. You got that?”

“Frank…” you breathe out shakily as his words sink in.

 _“You got that?”_ he presses, insistent in his need to make sure.

Nodding wordlessly, you let your fingers lace fully with his and squeeze. The tether is enough to keep everything from boiling over, your focus drawn away from the chaos and back to the calm place your mind should never have left.

_Maybe the tea wasn’t what you needed, after all; maybe it was him all along._

“Thank you,” you whisper, giving him a small smile.

“You don’t gotta thank me, Sweetheart,” he murmurs with a gentle shake of his head. “Not ever.”

His words make you look up, and something in your chest loosens as soon as you catch his gaze, like your lungs have been uncaged and can breathe freely for the first time in hours.

“I-” you begin, only to cut yourself off with a yawn that comes out of nowhere, your free hand raising to cover your mouth as your eyes water slightly. “Shit, sorry, that…”

“Adrenaline,” Frank explains, then shoots a glance towards the clock on the diner wall and curses. “Yeah, let’s…” He fetches a few bills out of his pocket before standing up and adjusting his cap. “Nancy?”

The woman in question turns from her place cleaning tables, instantly alert. She’s been giving you space this whole time, hovering on the edges of your awareness, and you feel a rush of appreciation hit you for all she’s done. And not just tonight, either.

“Thank you,” Frank tells her sincerely, which you take as your cue to get to your feet as well. You sway slightly, legs shaky as anything, and reflexively hold onto his elbow when he steps beside you, using it to keep you steady. “You’re one Hell of a woman, Ma’am.”

“So’s she,” Nancy replies with a wink in your direction. It’s soft, private, and you can’t help but smile back at her. “So you take care of our girl, yeah? And you-” She meets your gaze. “-take care of our guy.”

Frank’s arm slides around your waist, keeping you close as you nod in agreement. “Always.”

“Now out the back with you,” she ushers, tipping her head to the fire exit. “Just in case.”

“Thank you,” you say lamely, your voice more than a little croaky. There aren’t enough words to tell her just how grateful you are, so you don’t even try.

“See you soon,” she murmurs, then nods once at Frank before moving over to the main door to re-open the place.

 

 

You’re gone before she turns around.

* * *

You doze for most of the journey back to the safe-house, fatigue hitting you hard and fast now that you’re calm, but Frank’s steadying hand on your thigh throughout the drive stops you from feeling bad about that. It makes sense now, him getting you out of there as soon as you yawned; he saw it coming.

Even in your more alert moments, you don’t really talk to each other much; both of you content in the silence for now. That doesn’t mean there isn’t something building between you, though.

You can feel it.

So can he.

Unknown, indescribable, but… _there,_ hovering in the background.

You just hope it’s not a tidal wave of everything you haven’t said, on its way to drown you.

Frank squeezes your thigh, rousing you from your thoughts, before taking the keys out the ignition and opening the driver’s side door. “We’re here.”

Smothering another yawn, you sit up a little straighter and fumble with your seatbelt, only to growl in frustration when your fingers tremble too much for you to get any purchase. Unlike before, where you felt like you had no control of your mind, you now feel like you have no control of your body, and that’s almost as disconcerting.

You don’t feel the stirs of panic in your gut, though. You feel safe. You feel secure. You feel-

Frank’s hands still your clumsy ones, and you inhale sharply at the realization you didn’t even notice him open your door.

“Easy,” he soothes as he pushes down to release the seatbelt before gently freeing your arm.

“Thanks,” you mumble a little sheepishly, then tentatively manoeuvre yourself round until your legs hang over the edge of the seat, half out the car, only to pause when everything swims slightly.

_Fuuuck, this sucks._

When Frank’s hands move to hover by your hips, ready to help, you’re suddenly struck by how _familiar_ this is, how similar the position feels to a different night, under worse circumstances, when…

Frank’s hand cups your cheek, coaxing your head up, his eyes soft and understanding as they catch yours. “You good?”

 _That_ is the difference between now and then, isn’t it? His softness. His openness. He’s not keeping you at arm’s length, anymore.

You lift your hand to cover his and press your lips to the base of his thumb, just because you can.

“Gettin’ there,” you whisper, giving him a half smile. “Can’t promise my legs will hold out up those stairs, though.”

Frank lets out a quiet laugh, then takes half a step back before gesturing for you to hop down out the truck. “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

It’s inelegant, almost staccato, the way you move your shaky limbs, but you manage to get out without falling flat on your ass, so that’s got to count for something. You find your feet a little easier once Frank’s hand seeks out its place on your lower back, though you still feel a little like Bambi, and let him guide you over to the main door with only a few stumbles along the way.

The stairs, however, do turn out to be the problem you dreaded they’d be; your legs really don’t seem to want to put in the extra work to climb up them, and your body is overcome with too much fatigue to have the co-ordination to compensate for it.

“Shit,” you huff out, leaning against the wall. You’re only a few steps up, but not even Frank’s gentle pressure on your back is enough to keep you going. “Sorry. This… wow. Yeah, I…”

“C’mere,” Frank sighs softly, hands sliding to grip your hips so he can turn you to face him.

“Oh!” you gasp when you end up chest to chest, the height difference between you made up for by the extra step up you are. “No, no, Frank, you don’t have to-”

He hauls you up against him before you can get another word out, but he isn’t rough with it, just firm.  _The way you always knew he would be, the way Daredevil should’ve been all that time ago,_ your mind registers absently. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, ankles crossing behind him, then loop your arms around his neck to hold on tight. Not that he’d ever drop you; you just want to touch him.

“Thanks,” you mumble as you let yourself relax a little into his hold. No use fighting it; you won’t get up on your own.

“Uh-huh,” he acknowledges, sounding a little amused, then starts up the stairs a lot faster than you would’ve been capable of. Each step jostles you against him, but unlike last time, you’re not in too much pain to appreciate the way your bodies move together; you notice every movement, every shift of muscle…

You want to hit some sense into yourself for letting your mind stray there. Even if things _were_ heading in that direction, neither one of you have the energy to see it through, and you know it. So, instead of coaxing him towards the wall in an echo of that very first time, you close your eyes and press your lips to his shoulder, trying not to think about it.

It works.

_(Kind of.)_

Once you reach the front door, Frank shifts you slightly to one side so he can reach forward to slide his key into the lock. Something cold run up your spine when you spot the way he grimaces in pain before schooling his expression into something more neutral again.

“Frank?”

He ignores your concern in favour of pushing open the door and carrying you through to the kitchen, but now you’ve seen it, you can’t _un_ see the pain he’s trying to hide, so you barely wait two seconds after he places you on the counter before scrambling to unzip his jacket, legs locked around him still so he can’t pull away.

“Where’re you hurt?” you rush out, ghosting your hands over his ribs, his chest…

“It’s nothin’,” he deflects, but when your fingers push his jacket off his shoulders, he has to smother a grunt of pain that tells you the exact opposite.

“ _Nothin’,_ huh?” you challenge, shoving the jacket backwards off of him before reaching for his t-shirt and pushing that upwards, a little more gently this time. He stiffens, but doesn’t push you away, even when you expose a large square of gauze covering the front _and_ back of his right shoulder. “Well, it sure looks like something to me. What the fuck happened?”

You _see_ the hesitation in his eyes, the moment he takes to consider his options…

“Took an arrow to the shoulder,” he eventually reveals, tone a little flat. His hands come to rest on the outside of your thighs as your fingers gently run over the gauze. His index finger starts to flutter.

“An arrow?” You frown, then feel your heart sink as a thought occurs to you. “Who… that wasn’t… did I… was it…?”

“No, not one of them,” he assures you, though the words come out low and gravelly, like it’s painful for him to think about. “A friend.”

“Some friend,” you mutter with a shake of your head, then soften your tone as you realize the reality of why both sides of his shoulder are bandaged up; the arrow must have gone _through_. “Shit, Frank, that’s gotta-”

“He’s dead.”

Your head snaps up as your words die on your tongue. “What?”

“My friend,” he explains, jaw tense. “Bastards who killed my family, they… ‘s why I went AWOL for a few days. Was half on my way to joining him, but David, he… he got help. Old marine buddy of mine, a medic. Saved my life.”

Your hands lay flat on his chest as a lump rises in your throat, making it hard to speak.

“Frank, I’m…” You swallow thickly. “I’m so sorry.”

He smiles bitterly, then gives a half-shrug, mumbling, “Not your fault.”

“Maybe not, but…”

“C’mon,” he rumbles, reaching up to bring your hands down from his chest to the counter before unhooking your legs from around him so he can take your boots off for you. He doesn’t comment on them being on the wrong foot, but you know he notices; he just gives you the courtesy of pretending he hasn’t.

“I, uh…” You bite down on your bottom lip, feeling shitty for bringing it up. “I shouldn’t’ve pushed. I’m s-”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for,” he deflects as he strips you of your jacket. “You weren’t to know.”

You look down at your lap, gathering yourself before realizing, “Maybe I should’ve.”

Frank pauses in his movements, brow furrowing at your words.

“Known, I mean,” you explain, the words almost falling out of your mouth. “That’s… that’s kinda the whole thing with us, isn’t it? We, uh… we deal with shit on our own, when… when we don’t have to. Both of us. We carry the weight of it by ourselves. _You_ carry it by yourself.”

“That’s different,” he sighs lowly. “This ain’t- My shit’s… it…”

“How’s it different?” you counter softly, your own fingers starting to tremble again just like his. “Our _baggage_ may be different, but _we’re_ not. Not really. We both avoid the tough shit. We both refuse to talk about it. And it doesn’t work, does it? _No matter how strong you are, it always catches up with you eventually,_  that’s what you said, right?”

He murmurs your name, hands moving to cover yours.

“I’m not saying we have to talk about _everything,_ but, fuck… Look at tonight,” you rush out, thoughts snowballing beyond your control. “None of that should’ve happened, because I should’ve told you what was going on, y’know? About… About what happened that night and- and my uncle… All of it. It would’ve saved a lot of grief and a lot of problems, but… I didn’t. So here we are.”

His thumb strokes a soothing arc over your knuckles in lieu of an answer, making your breath catch, but you can’t stop now; you have to keep going.

“And that’s not even all of it, ‘cause it’s not just the bad shit we don’t talk about, is it? It’s _everything._ Which makes me think that… most of all? I…” Your throat constricts with the weight of the truth; if you don’t say this now, you’re scared you never will. “I should’ve told you about _me._ The good shit and the bad, as soon as things changed… y’know, between us? When it stopped being just about sex and became…”

“More.”

You look up at him again, though can’t remember ever stopping. It’s hard, holding his gaze when you feel so exposed. It’s hard _being_ so exposed. Period. But, sometimes, like that Goddamn arrow, the best way out is _through._

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice small with the intimacy of what you’re saying. “But I didn’t. Same way you didn’t. And I guess that was because I got so used to keeping that door between Us and… _us_ shut that… after a while, I didn’t know how to open it. Or if you’d even want me to.”

Frank breathes out your name again, but you can’t stop now. You have to finish.

“I’m not, uh… I’m not good at relying on people, y’know? Been let down by…” You huff a bitter laugh against the sting your next words carry. “Pretty much everyone in my life. People always leave, or hurt me, or worse, so… it’s always been easier to keep it all in. But then I met you, and… for the first time in _so_ long, I actually _wanted_ to let someone in. Only, I couldn’t bring myself t— I couldn’t— not when-…” You eyes widen as you stop yourself from saying something stupid. “Look, that’s not the point, point is that you can talk to me whenever you need somebod-”

“When…?” he probes lowly, refusing to let you back down from the precipice.

Your voice cracks. “Frank…”

“You wanna let me in? You wanna open that door?” he pushes, eyebrow raising just slightly. “Stop talkin’ about it; _do it_.”

And there it is.

The line.

If you cross it… everything could change. Nothing could change.

All you can do is jump and hope he meets you halfway.

“I nearly sought you out so many times after he showed,” you confess before you can reconsider. “I kept walking past the diner after work, hoping that maybe you’d be there, but… the one time you were… I _kept_ walking.” You hesitate, suddenly feeling nauseous. “And I did it because I knew that… even though we don’t ever talk about it… the hand you’ve been dealt? The shit you go through every day? It’s so much worse than anything I could ever imagine. And that’s not me putting this on you. I accepted from the start that it would be a part of you I’d probably never know, and I understand why, so I guess that… knowing how heavy your shoulders were already… I didn’t want to risk adding to it, especially when I wasn’t convinced that you’d actually…”

“Care?” The rough timbre of his voice has your gaze snapping up from its lock on your lap, and the warmth of his fingers on yours is nothing – _nothing_ – compared to what wells up inside you when your eyes finally catch his. “Goddamn it. That’s… I nev-… You…”

_Did you honestly think I could ever say no to you?”_

“I know you care. I don’t doubt it now,” you murmur, squeezing his fingers tightly. “But at the time, I…” – _fuck, this is so hard; it’s almost brutal to say this out loud – “_ I guess what this all boils down to is that I didn’t think I was worth caring about. So I didn’t say anything. And at the time, it made sense because… _I_ didn’t matter, so… _it_ didn’t matter, y’know?”

Frank closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, expression almost pained, like your words were his own rather than yours, like-

_Oh._

“You do know. Don’t you?” you whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek as tears well in your eyes. He leans into the touch, looking so fucking tired it breaks your heart. _Oh Frank._ He probably feels like this every day. Every night. “Of course you do. I just didn’t see it.”

“That ain’t on you,” he grits out quietly; this time, it’s him who struggles to hold your gaze. “Both of us assumed… we didn’t… _I_ didn’t…”

“We both made everything a lot harder than it had to be, huh?” you offer, giving him the reprieve he needs; he doesn’t have to open up until he’s ready to. God knows it took you long enough to open up to him.

Except… he doesn’t take it. He keeps going, too. And that feels even bigger than what you just did, somehow, like he’s taking a leap that could turn out to be almost fatal.

“Not everything,” he murmurs. “Some things… they’re so easy that the hard part’s _acceptin’_ that it’s easy. And I hate myself for it, for doing that to her, but… everytime I come close to…” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “Guess I’m the one who don’t know how to open the door this time.”

Your voice is so soft, it’s almost inaudible. “What door?”

He looks at you, then. Pushes your hair behind your ear. Touches your cheek.

And then…

And then…

A moan escapes your lips when his touch them.

Your hands find his waist. His cup your face.

The second kiss is slower, an exploration, a gentle tilt of heads.

The third curls your toes, makes you tug him closer as your back arches towards him and-

“Sorry,” you whisper as you put a little distance between you, but then he pulls you to the edge of the counter and kisses you deep and slow, holding you close with both hands splayed against your back, and you let out what can only be called a whine.

_OhGodOhGodPerfectFinallyYesYesYes…_

When the kiss breaks, your foreheads press together and both of you exhale a little breathlessly, eyes closed and bodies trembling.

“Stay,” you breathe out. “Please.”

He stiffens.

“Not for that,” you continue, though everything is throbbing with the need for it. That’s not what this is about. “It’s just…” You swallow thickly and try again. “You look so _tired,_ so… If you haven’t got anywhere you need to be…”

He hesitates, which instantly makes you want to recoil and take it back, but that’s not how this _thing_ works anymore. You don’t get to run away from this.

The strength it takes to lift your head so you can look him in the eyes physically _hurts_.

“I…” He clenches his jaw, genuinely conflicted. The hand on your back flexes against your skin. “I gotta meet Micro…”

You nod, refusing to let your disappointment show, but the sudden sting of uncertainty, the fear that he won’t come back, the thought that _this_ is all you’ll ever have… it roars up unbidden, suffocating you from within, no matter how hard you try to fight it back.

Your heart starts to pound. Lungs begin to struggle.

_Stop._

You focus on his eyes.

His lips.

The throb of his pulse in his neck.

Pushing down everything else, you bite back the instinctual, defeated resignation that’s on your tongue and twist slightly in his hold to gesture at the mugs sitting on the dish rack beside you instead. “Do you have time for me to make you a fresh cup before you go?”

He shoots a glance towards a spot on the wall somewhere over your shoulder – a beat you would’ve missed if you weren’t paying so much attention to his every move – then exhales a puff of breath before focusing back on you.

“I’ll stay,” he decides, expression softening once again. “At least for a little while.”

“Okay,” you accept, even though it’s hard – _so fucking hard_ – not to close yourself off the way your instincts are begging you to. “Okay. I’ll make us both-”

“No Goddamn way are you havin’ coffee,” he dismisses with a shake of his head. “You’re gonna sit your ass right there while I make myself one and find you some decaf.”

The thought of him moving away makes your chest tighten with anxiety, even though you try your best to keep it at bay.

“I don’t mind,” you assure him, ignoring the tremble in your fingers as they curl inwards in a reflexive attempt at clinging on when he moves away to switch the kettle on.

He fetches two mugs from the rack and spoons himself out some instant coffee before searching in one of the cupboards for some of the decaf Karen accidentally grabbed a while back.

“Honestly, Frank, you’ve probably been on your feet all day and your shoulder’s-”

“Hey.” As he pours the water out with one hand, the fingertips of his other trail along your jawline until his thumb can press delicately against your bottom lip. “This shit? Physical shit? I got used to that a long time ago. So stop worrying, yeah?”

You breathe out a heavy sigh and nod, choosing to let it go for now.

He gives you a half-smile, then grabs a spoon to stir both coffees without really having to look. “Good girl.”

Your heart skips as your mind splutters forward memories of _fingers entwining_ and _breaths catching_ and _passion_ and _hips_ and _more_ in some kind of Pavlovian response to the praise, and your lips part against the pad of his thumb, making his gaze flit down to your mouth.

“Shit,” he mutters, then clears his throat and finishes up the drinks, adding a splash of cold water to yours to cool it a little. “C’mon.”

 

 

_(A few minutes later, when he catches your gaze from the other side of the couch and your chest gets tugged by something you’ve always denied… you put your coffee cups on the table and pull him into another kiss that feels more intimate than sex ever could._

_As tough as tonight has been… you don’t regret a thing.)_

* * *

“Coffee’s gettin’ cold,” Frank murmurs when your lips are red and swollen, bodies entwined across the length of the couch.

You can’t help it; you laugh.

The sound cuts through any tension lingering in the air, light and surprised, then morphs into a quiet groan as you drop your forehead to his shoulder. “Shit.”

He tilts his cheek against your hair, voice soft in its confusion. “What?”

“Nothin’, it’s just…” You shake your head in disbelief. “ _Every. damn. time.”_

You _feel_ him relax, concern and worry seeping from him before they can fully form.

“Y’mean you _don’t_ like it that way?” he ribs lightly, though his voice is still rough from the emotion of _before_.

Before the weights on your shoulders eased up.

Before you spent an _age_ learning each other’s lips.

“Shut up,” you mumble, then sink back on the couch just far enough to see his face, arms still looped around his neck and hips pressed tight together from when he’d covered your body with his. His thumbs trace arcs back and forth across the bare skin of your back, under your t-shirt. “Not all of us have an asbestos mouth, alright?”

He gives you a half-smile, a rare, genuine thing that lights up his eyes a little, then raises a brow. “Asbestos mouth, huh?”

“First thing I noticed about you,” you murmur, letting your hands slide down to his chest just to feel his heart pound below. _This is real. He is here. This is happening._ “Well… one of the first, anyway.”

“Mm.” His fingers splay against your skin, holding you close. _Not letting go._ “And the very first?”

You smile to yourself; you don’t even have to _think_ about the answer.

_Thank you, Ma’am._

“Your voice.” Off his surprised look, you continue, “You, uh… you sounded so rough, y’know? In that way you always do, but…” Your gaze drops to his chest, contemplative. “You weren’t harsh. Not with Nancy. You treated her with respect and so, I… I guess it was your manners, really, that I noticed more than anythin’…”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “That right?”

When you lift your gaze, what you see in his makes relief floods your chest so forcefully, you almost forget how to breathe.

_Acceptance. Not avoidance._

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling tenderly. “That’s Goddamn right.”

His face softens, his gaze flitting to your lips for half a second before he lowers one of his hands out from under your t-shirt and slowly, tentatively, carefully, brings it up to gently brush his knuckles over your cheekbone. The touch sends goosebumps running across your skin, but instead of fighting it, you let yourself lean in to the touch – _you’re allowed to, now_ – and close your eyes.

You stay that way until his phone chirps, signalling it’s time for him to leave.

As you watch him go a few minutes later, you realize that while the difference between fucking The Punisher and kissing Frank Castle is pretty striking, the two sides of him do have one thing in common.

 

You love them both the same.

_(And they love you, in their own way, even if neither of them will ever say it.)_


	14. Torches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep this note short, mainly because I don't quite know what to say, but... this one is late because I was in hospital due to a ruptured ovarian cyst, then had scans and tests that exhausted me, so... writing had to take a backseat for a bit.
> 
> I hope this more than makes up for the wait - please, please, please let me know your thoughts in the comments, as I really need the good vibes right now.
> 
> Love, Soph xx

_Home._

_A place where I can go_

_to take this off my shoulders._

_Someone, take me home._

 

Things start to get tougher.

Not for you.

(Fuck, things for _you_ are better than they have been for a long time; every kiss the two of you share reminds you of that.)

For  _him._

It’s subtle, at first.

A glance to the kitchen ceiling here.

A double-check of his cell phone there.

Truthfully, you only notice it because you notice _him_ so much.

Every move. Every sigh. You catalogue them, just because you can.

And so, you leave him to it. Let him process it in his own way.

He’ll come to you when he’s ready, you tell yourself, the same way he always does.

It works at first, the watchful waiting, but then _things_ start to morph into something bigger, something undeniable.

Gazes into the distance that lasts just half a second too long.

Conversations that fade out halfway through because he loses the thread.

But that’s not what makes you worry.

No.

What makes you _worry_ is the growing tension in his arms. His hands.

You’ve seen it before; those nights in the diner, right before he’d get you outside and into the truck.

Your hips have borne the bruises from that coiled energy. You’ve felt it wrapped around your neck.

And yet, instead of taking what he needs from you, he softens his touches, keeps distance between you that he doesn’t have to leave... and so the tension multiplies, makes his fingers flutter and his shoulders stiffen to the point that it’s almost painful to watch.

You get why he’s doing it; you’remore than that to each other now. More than just a fuck.

Without that wall of anonymity between you, everything has a meaning, especially this. Hell, even kissing you can be tough for him, sometimes; you can tell from the way he hesitates right before your lips meet or freezes up if your hands touch him in a certain place. It’s a memory minefield you’re both tiptoeing through one day at a time, so sex? That was going to be a whole other ballgame.

But this… this is different.

It’s not about sex; it’s about power. Control. _Release._

He needs it, even though he’s trying to resist it, and you’re more than willing to give it to him.

You just want him to _want_ it first.

 

 

(And if he can’t want it – physically or mentally – then you’ll have find some other way to satisfy his needs and deal with _that_ later.)

* * *

Saying things are _tougher_ was a pretty major understatement, you realize, when Karen drops by that Saturday afternoon after Frank skips a visit, anxiety written all over her face as she double checks nobody’s followed her into the hall before coming inside.

She’s never done  _that_ before.

“You look like Hell,” you worry as she bustles towards the kitchen, hands so jittery she almost drops the grocery bag she’s carrying before she reaches the counter.

You rush forward to steady it before the contents can spill everywhere, then dip your head to try to catch her gaze when she heaves a weary sigh and grimaces, clearly flustered by something you know in your gut relates to Frank.

“Hey,” you nudge. “Talk to me.”

She looks up at you, then, lips parting in something like surprise before she laughs and mumbles, “Jesus, you sound just like him.”

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” you parry in an attempt at easing the tension in her shoulders. When it doesn’t work, you carefully ease the bag from her hands and place it down for her before gently rubbing her shoulder. “Kare… C’mon.”

She makes a sound of half-hearted protest, then turns away and tucks her hair behind her ear nervously before shaking her head.

“I don’t know, it’s… it’s nothing, just…” She lets out a heavy sigh, throwing one hand up in the air. “Homeland spoke to me the other day. Started asking questions. Ab-About Frank. And when I spoke to him last night, he-”

“Wait, wait, wait, rewind… _Homeland?_ As in, _Security?”_ Your heart drops to your stomach. “Jesus, do they…”

“Know he’s alive?” Karen runs her hand through her hair, then shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe? At least, they will if Madani tells them what he did, and I can’t tell if she’s the type to…” She cuts herself off with a frustrated noise, then pushes away from the counter and starts to pace. “He’s putting himself at risk, doing what he’s doing, and Madani, she… she’s not stupid; she _knows_ it was him. She knows he’s not dead. And she won’t let it go until she gets proof, same way I wouldn’t, but these guys he’s after? Shit, these guys, they…”

She’s on a roll, now; you’ve seen her like this before, when she gets an idea in her head over something she cares about. And she cares about Frank more than most. You’ve got to let her get it out her system before you’ll be able to really talk to her about it, but that doesn’t mean her words don’t get your head spinning.

_Who’s Madani?_

_Why does she think Frank’s alive?_

_What did he do?_

_How the fuck has everything-_

“They won’t stop until he _is_ dead, and sometimes I… Sometimes I wonder if that’s what he wants, to take them down with him regardless of how the rest of us would feel, and it- urgh, it makes me so _mad!_ He knows we care, he _knows_ you’d miss him, but he doesn’t- he doesn’t _see it!”_ she continues to rant, all bundles of energy and stress as the words tumble out of her animatedly. “I keep trying to get through to him, I keep offering a way out, but he won’t let me help him!”

You look down at the floor and your arms move to cross around you, fighting back the sense of guilt that’s suddenly gnawing at your insides.

_You can help him._

_You know how._

“I can-I can _say_ something, I can _write_ something, get Ellison to publish it so we can expose them!” She throws her hands up in the air and turns to face you, fire and fury and genuine passion pouring out of her. “I _hate_ this! I need- I need to… I need to _do_ something, I can’t just sit around doing _nothing_ like-”

Her gasp is full of horror, eyes wide and apologetic as she covers her mouth with both hands, like she can’t believe the words that almost escaped her.

Silence echoes in the space between you, the atmosphere shifting like the whole room is holding its breath.

You exhale.

“Like me?” you finish for her, voice even and gentle, though your heart is pounding all the while.

“That’s not…” she splutters, face flushing brightly. “I didn’t… that wasn’t what I…”

You hold up a hand and forcing your lips into an understanding smile. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” she deflects, aghast. “I can’t believe I just… Shit, I am _so_ sor-”

“I know,” you assure her, because you know it’s the truth. Karen isn’t one to be passive aggressive, not like that.

Doesn’t make her words any less true.

“So… uh…” You pause, the air heavy and awkward as you try to figure out how the fuck to circumnavigate that. “Let me… Let me get this straight, ‘cause I don’t… we’ve never really spoken about… But, uh, Homeland – this _Madani_ person – thinks Frank’s alive? And they questioned you about it?”

Karen looks like she wants to apologize again, but stops herself before the words can form in favour of answering, “Yes.”

“And _why_ , exactly, do they think that?” you wonder, feeling like you’re missing something vital.

She rolls her eyes without any real heat behind it. “He pulled her out of a burning car.”

“He… what?” You feel your face fit between surprise and confusion. “Wh- I don’t…” You huff out a laugh. “That… doesn’t actually surprise me. I’m guessing that’s why he didn’t come home last night? She’s out looking for him?”

(You’ll wonder, later, when you started to think of here as _home_ for you and him both.

Then again, where else would it be?

This is the only place the two of you truly have.)

“He didn’t tell you?” Karen frowns, then curses under her breath and starts fumbling to open her bag. “Shit, I can’t believe I forgot to-… where is-… I swear I…”

As she rummages around for something, muttering to herself, you glance up at the invisible corner camera and feel your gut twist as you process the revelations of the past few minutes best you can.

_You there, Frank?_

_Because I am. I’m right here._

_Just take it._

“Here.”

Karen thrusts something small and black out towards you, startling you from your thoughts, and it takes a good three seconds for you to realize what it is.

Your eyebrow raises. “A cell phone?”

“ _Your_ cell phone,” she corrects, giving it a quick half-shake in silent urging for you to take the damn thing. “Well, your new one, anyway.”

“I don’t…” Brows furrowed, you take it from her as hesitantly as you would a grenade. “What…”

“He asked me to bring it to you last night,” she explains. “I’m so sorry, I got side-tracked at the…”

You tune her out once you spot an envelope icon on the front screen of the device, trying to stem the blossom of hope in your chest just in case this isn’t what you want it to be.

_A link._

_A path._

_A way in._

You exhale a tremulous breath, then glance up, cutting Karen off mid-sentence. “He gave you this?”

“Yeah,” she replies, an understanding look in her eye. “Said something about opening a window?“

“A wi-…” Your throat tightens, emotion hitting you dead in the chest.

_Oh, Frank._

Oblivious to anything outside of the palm of your hand, you flip open the phone and let your thumb hover over the _open message_ button.

“Look, I… I can go. If you wanna…”

“No,” you interject with a quick shake of your head, though your eyes stay glued to the _2 New Message(s)_ notification on the screen. “No, don’t… Please just… Stay for a bit, yeah? I’ll, uh…”

Despite yourself, you trail off, distracted with wonderings of what’s waiting for you just one click away.

“I’ll go freshen up,” Karen says softly, then gestures towards the bathroom, giving you space you’re too gone to appreciate as you finally press _open._

**Hey, Sweetheart.**

The tension you hadn’t realized was inside you drains away faster than you can comprehend.

**Back in a few days. We’ll know if you need us. F.**

Your fingers move before you can really register it.

_I’ll be here. Stay safe._

You hit send, then close the phone and lift it to your lips, unsure how to decipher the wave of _something_ welling inside you.

A few moments later, the phone buzzes against your mouth.

**You too. F.**

 

 

(That something?

It’s  _hope_.)

* * *

_“Hey.”_

“Hey.”

_“…”_

“…”

_“Are you… is everything…?”_

“Oh, no, um… I’m fine… I… just wanted to… uh…”

“…”

“Is now a good… are you- are you in the middle of…? Shit, I’ve interrupted you, haven’t-”

_“No, you’re good… you’re good. I’m here.”_

“Right. Good. Yeah, that’s… okay… I, uh… I’m sorry I didn’t message back sooner. Karen, she, uh… she got delayed. So… I only got the phone about a minute before I texted earlier, and then she stayed for a while, so I didn’t… yeah.”

_“…”_

“I dunno why I’m even… I just… something Karen said, it-… Guess I… I wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were okay, but… feels kinda stupid now.”

 _“It aint stu-…  You don’t-… you don’t gotta justify callin’, alright? S’why I got you it, yeah? It’s fine._ I’m  _fine.”_

“I know… I know, but… shit, nevermind, I’ll just-”

_“She tell you about Madani?”_

“Uh…”

_“…”_

“Yeah… Some of it, anyway? I mean… She didn’t say much, but it just got me thinking about things and… I dunno, guess I… I worry about you, you know? And, from what she said… I’m right to be. Hence the call.”

_“That ain’t… She never should’ve… Fuck, this ain’t your mess, okay? You ain’t… you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me-”_

“But I do! I do worry! And, yeah, it’s not her place to tell me, but… I’m glad she did, ‘cause at least I have some context, now. Perspective. Something to _actually_ worry about instead of having some hypothetical, exaggerated version of the truth drive me crazy.”

“ _God damn it, I-… I don’t want that for you. I don’t want you… Fuck, Karen-_ ”

“-Didn’t do it to spite you, Frank. She told me because she’s worried about you, too.”

_“… She always is.”_

“You ever thought there’s a reason for that?”

“…”

“I didn’t… Sorry, that wasn’t what… Frank, I just… I just wanted to… Shit, this isn’t coming out right.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Y-You and… and Micro?”

“…”

“You, uh… you’ve got this… this _thing_ you’re doing under control, right?”

_“… Wouldn’t be doin’ this if we didn’t.”_

“Right. Course not… which is why I… um… Look, I just… I want you to know that I... “

“…”

“I think you should just do it. Okay? I want you to… to do whatever it is you gotta do, yeah? I know Karen won’t agree, and I know you don’t need my permission, but… if putting these people down is the only way to end this… you just do it, okay? You do it for _them.”_

_“…”_

“And then, when you’re… when you’re done… when this part of the mission is complete… you come home. Yeah? You come home, and you take a shower, and you eat, sleep, drink coffee… whatever it is you need, you just take it, okay?  _Take it.”_

“…”

“That’s… that’s all I wanted to say. That I… I get it. So… I’ll be here, yeah? Whenever you… whenever you’re done. With this part. And the rest.”

_“… Sweetheart, I…”_

“…”

_“I’ll be-… I’ll be back soon. I’ll come… I’ll come h-home.”_

“… Y-yeah?”

_“Yeah. Okay?”_

“O-Okay.”

“…”

_“…”_

_“…”_

“Frank?”

_“Yeah, Sweetheart?”_

“…”

_“…”_

“Get some sleep, okay?”

_“You too.”_

“…”

_“Goodnight.”_

“Goodnight, Frank.”

 

(You lie awake until 4AM, wondering when _he_ started to call here home, too.)

* * *

Despite the new tether between the two of you, you only text each other sporadically over the next few days; he’s in the middle of something, after all, and given the choice between him texting you back within five minutes or him coming home safe because he hasn’t been distracted… you don’t even need to dignify that with an answer.

You’ve never really been one for small talk anyway, but given that you can’t leave the safe-house and your range of daily activities can therefore be counted on one hand, it’s not like you have anything new to tell him, if you’re honest with yourself.

Still, it’s nice to know that, should you need him, the line of communication is there. It makes things feel more real, somehow.

As does the set of keys Karen’s drops off that afternoon.

She doesn’t offer an explanation, just hands them over and walks away looking just as stunned you feel.

After she leaves, you flip what can only be a car key over and over in your hand, the rhythm soothing in a way you can’t explain, then let your fingers close around the warming brass of the key you know without checking unlocks the main door and exhale a long, slow breath.

 

 

Is he trusting you to come back, or trusting you to leave?

(You doze off, no closer to the truth but feeling closer to _him_ regardless.)

* * *

_“Hey, Sweetheart. Guess you’re sleepin’ or somethin’, which… it’s gettin’ late so… Look, if… if this works out how we think, then… I’ll be comin’ home in a few hours… Maybe not for good, but… for a while, yeah? We, uh… We caught a break, maybe, so… if it all goes to plan then… meet me at the diner? I ain’t gonna get there ‘til late, but… guess that’s our thing, ain’t it?... I gotta, uh, I gotta go, but… Stay safe, and see you soon… Bye, Sweetheart.”_

You throw on yesterday’s clothes and hurry for the door, grabbing your new keys on the way out.

* * *

Nancy’s a little surprised to see you when you walk through the main entrance, but covers it with a warm smile from where she’s serving someone coffee at the counter and gestures towards the corner booth with a tilt of her head in silent acknowledgement.

Your hands are jittery and your nerves are buzzing – from excitement or anxiety, you can’t tell – so you slip your fingers under your thighs and try to resist the urge to let your knees bounce as you glance up at the clock on the wall.

It’s only 2AM so, judging from the timestamp of Frank’s voicemail, you’ve probably got another hour or two to wait at the very least, but you decline Nancy’s offer of coffee when she approaches a few minutes later in favour of asking for a cup of peppermint tea instead.

She places a calming hand on your shoulder, then nods in understanding before heading out back to prepare your cup.

Resisting the urge to check your new phone every few seconds, you pull out the book you’re halfway through and try to settle in, tuning out everything else for now.

It’s slow going, but after a few sips of tea once it’s cooled enough to not scald you and a full chapter of the novel, your heart eases its incessant pounding against your ribcage and you start to relax a little.

He’ll get here when he gets here, after all.

* * *

Four chapters and another full cup later, there’s still no sign of him.

Nor is there over an hour after that.

Or the hour after that.

Book long forgotten, you pass your cell between your hands clumsily, debating the merits of sending a message to check in, then startle at the sight of your own reflection in the window and send the phone clattering to the floor.

You laugh under your breath, feeling some of the tension in your bones seep away along with your paranoia, then lean over to pick the phone up with a soft sigh.

_For fuck’s sake._

At least it’s not broken.

Pushing yourself upright again, you put the phone back down on the table and lean back in your seat, gaze drifting back to the window as your fingers tap lightly against the booth.

He’ll be okay.

He’s got to be.

He’s probably just got dist-

You freeze.

_No._

_No way._

You blink twice, squinting slightly as you lean closer to the window.

_Oh, fuck._

Your spine goes ramrod straight and your eyes widen.

Your uncle is right across the street.

And he is _staring_ at you.

Fingers closing around the phone like a lifeline, you push yourself out of the booth and hurry towards the door, ignoring Nancy’s call of concern as you run out onto the sidewalk.

It’s pouring with rain, drenching you within seconds, but you barely feel it over the rush of adrenaline flooding you as you come to a dead stop opposite the man who almost got you killed.

There’s so much you could say to him… so much you could _do_ to him…

He does, at least, have the decency to look ashamed, shaking hands burying themselves in his pockets as he looks down at the wet ground.

It’s not enough.

“Did you know?” you call out, feet rooted in place. “That they’d try to kill me?”

His head snaps up, then, but before he can open his mouth to respond a truck passed between you and your phone vibrates in your hand, drawing all your attention down to the tiny device like a beacon.

**Get back to the safehouse.**

You barely have time to register the unfamiliar number before a second message pops up.

**Now. M.**

You frown, brain working too slow to comprehend who the Hell _M_ is until…

**F needs you. I’ll know when to stop watching.**

M.

Micro.

Realization hits you like a fucking freight train and you nearly drop the phone again as your heart plummets to the ground.

_Oh, shit._

_Oh, shit._

“Monkey, I-”

You glance back up at the opposite side of the street, caught between _him_ and Him.

There’s no contest.

 

 

You sprint towards home.

* * *

You make it back in record time, every muscle so jumpy and over-charged with adrenaline that you drop the keys twice before you can get them into the lock.

Cursing under your breath, you take a moment to try to calm yourself down, then steady your nerves with a hand against the door before sliding the key home and scrambling inside.

The door slams shut behind you half a second later, almost vibrating its frame, but you can barely register it over the sound of your heart thundering in your ears.

He’s already here.

“Frank?” you call out softly, taking few slow steps forward.

His hands clench and unclench at his sides, but he doesn’t move to acknowledge you any further.

_Shit._

You carefully place your keys on the kitchen counter as quietly as possible, then toe off your shoes so the noise doesn’t reverberate before moving to stand in front of him beside the couch, close enough to touch but choosing not to for now. You don’t know what’s going on inside him; reaching out before he shows a proper sign he knows it’s _you_ doing it may only make things worse.

“Hey,” you murmur in what you hope is a soothing voice. “Frank?”

He _shudders._

His jaw clenches.

His fingers flutter.

You exhale a slow breath, still unsteady from your long run back.

Okay.

Okay.

This is going one of _those_ times.

The times where talking only makes thing worse.

“Easy,” you whisper as you tentatively reach out to touch his arm, testing the waters.

He tenses, but doesn’t push you away, so you let your fingers trail down to loosely lace with his.

His eyes clamp shut and his jaw works for half a moment before he looks into your eyes, giving you a brief glimpse into just how wrecked whatever’s happened in the last few hours has made him, only to look down at the floor again like the eye contact _hurts_.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“Okay,” you breathe out, then bring your free hand up to his waist, slowly smoothing it up his chest until you reach the zipper of his jacket. “It’s okay.”

You pull the zipper down as smoothly as you can, not wanting to startle him, then raise both hands up to push the fabric off his shoulders and back so it can drop to the floor behind him. It lands with a thud that feels ten times louder than it actually is, echoing in the silence between you, but you don’t flinch.

Neither does he.

With fingers trembling from adrenaline or nerves or… _something_ , you take half a step forward and tentatively move his hands to your waist in silent encouragement before returning your own to his chest.

“C’mon,” you coax, barely audible over the sound of his breathing. When he doesn’t move, you let your forehead rest against his and slowly lift one of your hands towards his jaw. “C’mon.”

There’s a pause.

A moment where the whole world seems to halt, suspended in time, as your fingertips make contact with his skin…

A rough, calloused hand seizes your wrist as your head is yanked back by your hair, all air in your lungs crushed out by the force with which you’re pulled against Frank’s chest.

_There we go._

Instead of tensing up, you consciously make yourself relax, tilting your head back into his grip and lifting your fingers from his face as you make a point of breathing in a steady breath, showing him you’re okay, that this is what you want.

He meets your gaze, then. Fiery, all-consuming… and full of pain.

It breaks your fucking heart.

But that’s not what matters right now.

 _He_ is.

The way he’s breathing hard… how his entire body is thrumming with tension… _that’s_ what you focus on.

Nothing else.

And that makes you realize what’s got him frozen in place. Why he won’t move.

This is another door – one he can’t bring himself to open.

He won’t cross the threshold unless you _pull him_ over it.

Lowering your free hand from his chest to his waist, you give him the barest of nods, silently giving him permission for him to do whatever he wants, whatever he needs.

“Take it,” you whisper, holding his gaze as you slowly – _oh, so fucking slowly –_ start to lower yourself to your knees. “It’s okay.”

His abdominal muscles flex and tense beneath your fingers as his grip on your wrist loosens, giving you enough slack to settle on the floor even while his hand maintains its hold on your hair, keeping your face tilted up to him.

With your eyes wide open and clear, you bring your hands to the front of his tactical pants and slowly undo his belt before moving on to his fly. The fabric is sodden, just like your own clothes – he must’ve been out in the rain too – and you fumble slightly until you can open his pants just enough to push his boxer-briefs out the way.

He’s barely even half-hard, too in his own head to let go yet, but you ignore that for now, instead dragging your nails from his waist down across his hipbones, the sharp sting enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his fingers to tighten their grip on your hair.

“Yes,” you half-moan at the pull, tilting your head back into his touch as your eyes flutter shut a little. He exhales a sound that could be a groan, and it’s enough acknowledgement for you to lean forward and bite at the V of his hips, keeping him on the edge of pain for now; you’ll know when he’ll be able to take pleasure without it making him feel worse.

Reaching down blindly to undo the thick laces of his boots, you look up into his eyes again and lick a strong line over one of the scars on his torso, heart jumping at the grunt that escapes his lips before his head falls back and his cock twitches against your skin.

_Yes._

Before you lose him again, you reach for his waistband and yank at his pants and boxer-briefs, pulling them roughly down towards his ankles as he hisses in a sharp breath of shock, then scrape your nails up his strong, tensed thighs just to watch him shudder.

_Nearly._

Satisfied his attention is on what he _feels_ rather than what he’s _feeling,_ you grip his hips with both hands, digging in as hard as you dare, then pull him forwards until you can mouth at the length of him with just the tiniest hint of teeth, not quite taking him in but teasing at it while you give him a chance to pull away.

After a few moments, he finally looks down at you – _into_ you – and uses his grip on your hair to guide your mouth just a hair’s breadth away from the tip of his rapidly thickening cock.

“C’mon,” you murmur, arousal coiling inside you with the intensity of his stare. _The Punisher’s_ stare.

His jaw clenches and you can _feel_ the knife-edge he’s balanced on.

You know what he needs, what will tip him over.

“Please…” You give another tiny nod of your head, almost purring when the movement tugs on your hair again, and keep your eyes locked on his so he can see you’re telling the truth when you tell him, “I want this.”

The sound he utters is a low surrender, and you don’t hesitate to take it for the permission it is, sweeping your tongue around the head of his cock before taking him in, working him nice and slick and _hard_ until your jaw burns with how wide it has to stretch to accommodate him at full thickness.

Your hands ease their grip on his hips, splaying against his flesh to steady yourself as you take him deep enough to nudge at the back of your throat, and you let out a muffled moan when they twitch forward ever so slightly, instinctively trying to get deeper. On your next pass down, you breathe in deep then swallow around him, letting your throat tighten in a way that makes him groan loudly and push your hair completely off your face with his other hand so he can watch unobstructed.

You look up into his eyes, holding him there in your throat until your eyes start to water, then gasp in surprise when he pulls your head back, pausing you there just long enough for you to catch a breath before guiding you straight back down again and easing you into a rhythm that’s just shy of too much, too fast, and makes you wish you could reach down and touch yourself to match it.

_Fuck yes._

You give him everything you’ve got, teasing him with your tongue and maintaining just the right level of suction to get him vocal, then take him deeper into your throat than usual, consciously making yourself relax at the intrusion as much as you can. He’s thick, though, unforgivingly heavy on your tongue, and your eyes squeeze shut as you gag just a little, but you keep your hands holding him in place so he can feel every movement of your throat around him even as your legs twitch with the instinct to _move_.

“Fuck,” he swears lowly, thrusting his hips minutely as your eyes stream and you defiantly hold his gaze, urging him not to stop. He withdraws just enough for you to inhale a desperate breath through your nose, then lets one of his hands shift until his thumb can trace over the obscene shape of him against your cheek. “Good _girl.”_

You garble a moan, eyes fluttering shut as you force yourself to take him just a little further, a little deeper...

He pulls his hips back sharply, the shock of it making you cough harshly, then hauls you up by your hair and turns you to face the couch before bending you over the side of it forcefully enough to steal your breath. Within seconds, your jeans and underwear are shoved down to your knees, but before you can process the turn of events he’s crouching down to-

You squeal, rising up on your toes as he licks and sucks and _teases_ at your soaked flesh, almost brutal in the way he opens you up with his tongue, readies you for his cock…

And then he’s inside you, thrusting so deep you have to scramble to brace yourself for the onslaught, only for him to swipe one of your arms out and back behind you as his other hand clamps tight onto your shoulder.

Small cries spill out from your lips, unbidden, as his thrusts send conflicting shocks of pleasure and near-pain along every nerve, every cell… your brain can’t cope with the sudden influx, but you somehow manage to lock your knees just in time to stop them from buckling when his hand slips from your shoulder to your throat and hauls you up so your back is curved harshly, just the way you like it.

“Yes!” you pant, then whine when the hand that‘s been pinning your wrist squeezes tightly in silent command for you to keep it there before moving to rub your clit in tight circles, pleasure overwhelming you until you can’t _breathe,_ can’t _think,_ just _moan._ “Unh… ungh!”

His teeth sink into where your shoulder and neck meet, pushing you over the edge without warning.

You cry out in shock, legs shaking and pussy _clenching_ around him so tightly you can _feel_ the extra effort it takes for him to keep thrusting through it.

“Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!” you whimper as you clutch the wrist of the hand that’s still teasing your clit, fingers trembling to the point they can barely decide whether to push him away or pull him even closer.

He flattens his palm against you, fingers splayed either side of his cock as it pushes its way inside over and over, each thrust bumping your clit back into his hand until you feel something bigger, something _more_ coiling inside you…

“Yesyesyes… oh, please….” Your breath catches once, twice, then escapes you in a high-pitched keen as you feel yourself gush over his fingers, his low grunts of effort echoing in your ear as he keeps thrusting. “Yes! Fuck!... _Fuck!... Frank!_ ”

He stills, fingers digging in to your flesh as he holds you in place with your hips flush against his.

“Again.”

Panting breathlessly, it takes you a moment to comprehend what he growled.

“Say that. again,” he repeats lowly, fingers flexing around your throat before moving to your jaw and turning your face towards his.

His eyes are hungry, fucking ravenous as they meet yours; you’ve never seen him look this _dangerous_ , but you’re not scared.

You know exactly why he’s staring at you that way.

You tilt your face into his touch and lift the hand that’s behind your back to cover the one that’s around your neck, voice soft and quiet as you whisper, “Frank.”

He groans, forehead pressing hard against the side of yours.

“Frank,” you murmur as you arch your back to push your hips into his. “Please… _take it.”_

He withdraws from you fast enough for the emptiness to _ache,_ but you don’t have time to dwell on it before he twists you round to face him and seizes your throat hard enough it’s almost choking.

“You…” he breathes, eyes almost frantic as they take you in before finally settling on yours. “You…”

 _I want this,_ they tell him, wide open and honest. _I love you._

A sound that could almost be a whimper bubbles free from his lungs, and you suck in a harsh breath as his hand loosens its grip enough to allow you air again.

“Don’t stop,” you croak, reaching down to stroke his cock with one hand as the other cups his balls. “Take it…” you urge softly, near begging. “Take _me.”_

He cups your cheek, gaze softening as he whispers your name, but then his lips are on yours and you _melt_ against him, too overwhelmed by the  _newness_ of him kissing you this way to steady your legs any longer.

It’s not brutal or harsh… it’s _passion_ and _care_ and _raw_ in a way you’ve never known; you loop your arms around his neck and exhale a moan as he reaches down to lift you up against him, lips never parting for even a second.

You somehow manage to free your legs from your jeans, then wrap them tight around his waist as your mouths tease and share and _kiss_ slow and deep, more intimate than anything you’ve ever felt before.

 _The Punisher… Frank Castle…_ Their hands hold you safe and secure, unwavering even as he steps his way out of his boots and pants, then lowers you back onto his length in a move that has you crying out into his mouth.

The change of pace as he lifts and lowers you, over and over in slow, smooth movements, is almost too much to take, but then he slowly starts to walk with you suspended like that and the shift of him inside you makes you break the kiss just so you can catch your breath.

“I gotcha,” he rumbles against your lips, pressing your back against the bedroom wall. “I gotcha.”

“Frank,” you sigh, head tilting up as he scatters kisses along the side of your throat, right where you know there’ll be bruises in the morning. “Frank…”

He takes one of your hands in his, pushing it up against the wall beside your head as your fingers lace tightly together, then adjusts his grip on your thigh as he starts to _rock_ , setting a slow, deep rhythm you feel all the way to your toes.

You curl your free hand round the back of his neck and bring your foreheads together, breaths catching in the space between you before your lips meet once again, swallowing the sounds his movements threaten to coax out of you both.

It feels different, this way.

Bare.

New.

_Perfect._

But you know he needs more, know the angle could be just a little better, get his thrusts that little bit deeper, so you pull your hand free from his and grip his shoulder, nodding in silent permission for him to pin you higher against the wall so he can slip his elbows under your knees, spreading you wide just like that very first time all those months ago…

Except, this time, his mouth is hungry against yours, not holding back… his lips are relentless in their dance, tongue teasing against your own, and this… _this_ is perfect…

You give yourself over to it, to _him_ , clenching and releasing your muscles as much as you can the way you know he loves, then choke on a breath when his pubic bone hits your clit just right, making you spasm around him even tighter.

_Yes… yes… yesss!_

Your orgasm surprises you, hitting you out of nowhere, but it’s almost inconsequential compared to the way he’s groaning his own release into your mouth, the sound almost pained in its sheer _relief._

“Yes… _yes, Frank…”_ you breathe, eyes clamping shut against tears you’re scared you can’t contain, then hold him as close as you dare while he shudders and tenses against you, forehead dropping to rest on your shoulder.

He stays that way for a long time, trembling and overwhelmed, but instead of giving in to the ache in your hips that begs to be soothed like before, you’re content to just _breathe_ with him, let him take the comfort he needs from your touch; the almost-pain is more than worth it.

With a soft sigh, you tilt your head back against the wall and let your fingers thread through the hair at the nape of his neck, absently stroking over his scalp until he eventually raises his head and lets his forehead press against yours again.

You open your eyes to gaze into his, then let your lips curve into a tender smile at the softness in his eyes.

“Hi,” he rasps, voice wrecked with emotion.

You cup his cheek with one hand and stroke your thumb over his skin, your smile turning tearful. “Hi.”

He slowly leans in, head tilting just enough for his lips to catch yours once again, and kisses you so tenderly your chest seems to crack open from the weight of it.

 

_(There he is.)_

* * *

“I almost killed a soldier, last night.”

Eyes close.

“And then tonight…”

Hands meet.

“I was _this_ close to finishing it...”

Fingers squeeze.

Lungs sigh.

“He was _right there_ …”

“Shhh… Frank…”

Lips brush.

“We don’t have to talk about this ‘til the morning.”

Foreheads touch.

“You’re safe, here. With me… You can sleep, now, Marine.”

Tears spill.

"You can sleep."

 

 

_(And… finally… he does.)_


	15. Naked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert for episode 8 of The Punisher: nothing major, as it's not sticking exactly to canon, but thought I'd warn you anyway!
> 
> The next chapter is already half written, so won't take long for that to come out!
> 
> Your well wishes after the last one were very much appreciated - thank you for making me feel loved.
> 
> Soph xx

You wake in the morning to the sight of him, still sleeping, on the other side of the bed.

It takes your breath away.

_God, he looks different._

His brow still has the slightest of furrows but, although his muscles will always carry the tension that comes with being constantly vigilant, his body is about the most relaxed you’ve ever seen it. And his _face…_ Oh, his face…

You lift a hand, fingertips aching with the need to trace over the skin that’s usually marred with bruises and exhaustion and frown lines and pain, but stop yourself before you can risk waking him.

He deserves the peace.

(And, fuck, if the fact this is the closest thing he’s had to _that_ in a cripplingly long time doesn’t break your heart, nothing ever will.)

With a soft sigh, you settle against your pillow and simply watch him for a while, learning his face like this for the first time. The softness of it. The vulnerability. The rawness. The way the barely-there morning light catches his cheekbones just so…

He’s beautiful.

So, _so_ beautiful.

_(He always is, even at his ugliest, but this… this is a whole new level of beauty you feel truly blessed to see.)_

Smiling to yourself, you carefully roll onto your other side and glance at the clock, unsurprised to see there’s only a minute or so to go before the alarm will sound. Your body keeps doing this, rousing before it has to, but this morning you’re grateful for it; you may not get a chance to see him this way again for a while.

Before the alarm can break the almost spell-like atmosphere, you reach for the clock and quickly shut it down, cursing under your breath when your fingernails tap against the plastic; the sound may be soft, but you don’t imagine it’ll take much to wake him.

Shooting a quick glance over your shoulder, you breathe out a soft sigh of relief to see Frank has yet to stir, but choose not to risk moving again yet just in case; instead, you prop yourself up on your elbow so you don’t jostle the bed and, after a moment of hesitation, reach for your cell phone.

You turn the device over in your palm, debating with yourself over whether your plan is a good one, then flip it to fire off a quick message to Micro anyway, because _fuck it, why not?_

**Thank you.**

You don’t offer any explanation for what, exactly, it is you’re grateful for – the list is pretty long, after all – but you doubt you need to. For Micro to have messaged you the way he did, he has to understand the way Frank works well enough to know what he needed, so he must also understand _you,_ at least a little, to know you’d be able to give him it; if anyone will be able to get it, it’s him.

When the phone vibrates with his reply a few seconds later, a bubble of emotion lodges itself in your throat and your breathing stutters.

**_You’re the best thing in his life right now. It’s the least I could do._ **

How- what- is he even-

Your brow furrows and you struggle to get it together enough to begin to _think_ of a reply.

The best thing in _Frank’s_ life…?

Fuck, _Frank_ is the best thing in _yours._

As if you’d ever _not_ help him if he needs y-

**_Don’t pull that face. It’s true._ **

What the…

A quiet, shocked laugh passes your lips and you quickly cover your mouth to quash the noise, shooting a glance over to the corner of the kitchen ceiling.

 ** _Camera’s back on_** , comes the unnecessary confirmation.  ** _I’ll know if it needs to go off again._**

You shake your head in disbelief, firing back the first thing that comes to your head. **You’re terrifying.**

A brief pause.

**_And he isn’t?_ **

You smile to yourself.

 **Not to me** , you reply honestly.  **You, however…**

Another pause, longer this time.

**_Not bad for a ‘guy in a chair’, right?_ **

Your eyes widen and your stomach drops a little.

 ** _Terrifying_** , he continues.  ** _I know. If I didn’t owe you more than one, I’d get you back for that comment._**

 _Owe you more than…_ You frown, unsure what, exactly, he’d ever owe _you_ for.

 **How’d you work that one out?** you probe before you can think better of it.  **Shit, if you’re counting up who owes what, how about I owe you my damn life, just to start? Fuck, Micro, you keep him safe. You’re part of what gives me Him. I ain’t ever gonna be able to balance that out.**

**_You really don’t have a clue, do you? What having you has meant for this thing? For him?_ **

Another message follows quicker than you can even _start_ to process the implications of the previous one.

**_He’s waking up – speak soon. M._ **

_Wait, what?_

You whip your head round to look at Frank, cell phone tumbling from your fingers as you do so, then feel your lips curve into a soft smile despite your shock at Micro’s words as soon as your eyes catch him watching you, all sleep-rumpled and calm and _perfect_.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Frank shifts against the sheets, settling on his side rather than half on his front, then rumbles, “Time’s it?”

“Still early,” you murmur softly, carefully rolling onto your back. Your fingertips start to _ache_ , but you keep them to yourself through force of will alone; you don’t want to disturb him any more than you already have.

“How early?” he presses, and you can’t hold back a grimace as you glance at the clock beside you.

_Fuck, you’ve blown the whole ‘do not disturb’ thing way out now._

“ _Early_ early,” you admit, releasing a heavy sigh. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to w-”

You gasp as his hand slides across your stomach, slipping under the shirt of his you’ve slept in to grip your hip before turning you to face him, and suddenly anything you were about to say gets crushed by the tight squeeze of your heart as he looks at you like… like…

“Early’s good,” he gravels out, gaze flitting to your lips.

“Frank…” you begin, but then his lips are on yours and any guilt over waking him dissipates quicker than it’d come, replaced by pure _warmth_ as he kisses you with that same _something_ you felt last night.

Unable to stop yourself any longer, you let your fingers curl against his bare chest and as his run a gentle trail up your lower spine, making your back arch and a soft moan escape your lips. He echoes the sound with one of his own and smooths his palm down past your hip to hitch your leg over his, bringing you flush together as your kisses turn deeper, never losing the slow, sleepy pace you’ve both fallen into.

Micro was right, you realize absently somewhere in the back of your head as Frank’s hand slips back up your leg to cup your ass; you don’t have a clue what he meant, but you’re starting to understand. With a soft groan, you thread your fingers through what they can of the soft, short hairs at the back of his head and let your hips roll against his, feeling him start to thicken against your inner thigh, only to suddenly realize, “Fuck, the c-camera! Micro-”

“Is gonna stop watchin’ now,” Frank rumbles against your lips, raising his voice just slightly, before stripping you of his t-shirt and mumbling, “Fuckin’ voyeur.”

You breathe out a breathless laugh which trails off into another moan as he chucks your t-shirt away and rolls onto his back, bringing you over top of him to straddle his hips. Sitting upright, you let your palms move to his thick biceps, feeling the strength within them before smoothing over his shoulders and trailing down the wide expanse of his chest, taking full advantage of him being so vulnerable beneath you. Your fingertips linger over scars and outline bruises you missed during the rush of last night, and for once he lets them, holds your hips steady while you memorize every inch you can, until you finally lift a hand to cup the back of his neck and lean down to pull him into another kiss.

It shouldn’t feel so different, being with him this way – in a bed, after spending the night sleeping side by side – but it does, and you know it’s the same for him. You’re both slower, like this… savouring it, learning it… Your feet slip under his thighs as he braces himself with one elbow to meet you halfway, the hand of his free arm moving to sweep your hair off your face before cupping your cheek.

You press your lips to his palm and gaze down at him as he drinks you in, his eyes following the contours of your face like he’s seeing you properly for the first time, memorizing you just like you did him. You start to wonder what he sees, but then… it doesn’t matter, because the only thing he’s going to be seeing is _you,_ the same way he always has, and as he lifts his head to kiss your brow you feel your eyes burn slightly, suddenly more overwhelmed than you can say.

“Frank…” you whisper, then moan when his lips meet yours in a sweet kiss before tipping forwards to press him back against the mattress and bracing yourself with one hand either side of his head, like maybe that’ll be enough to keep this moment frozen in time, like the curtain of your hair can block the rest of the world out long enough for this to _stay_.

As you lean down to kiss him again, Frank groans softly into your mouth and moves his hands to your bare waist, fingers squeezing tight and _there_. The movement brings his pelvis flush against yours, a gentle rock that makes you realize he’s still only half hard, slow to respond and waning slightly, but in some ways that takes the urgency out of this, makes it about something _more,_ and you smile against his lips only to feel him tense up the second he realizes it for himself. “I’m-”

“Don’t you dare,” you warn with a shake of your head, kissing him again to distract him from what you know will be a downward spiral that will kill _this_ completely. “Just don’t. Please, just… _kiss me?_ ”

He stares at you for a long moment, then releases a sound that’s half-sigh, half-moan, before pulling you down flat so your whole body is pressed to his, skin to skin, as he slides one hand round to your lower back to splay his fingers across your spine.

You barely manage to stifle the desperate sound that escapes you as your body surges against his, the closest together you’ve ever been, and thread your fingers back into his hair as he gives you those slow, deep kisses you love so much. The firm strength of his muscles beneath you, the gentle caress of his fingertips… it’s overwhelming in the best of ways, and you never want it to end; even the endless heat and stick of skin on skin could never be enough to drag you away.

The hand against your lower back slips to your ass, pulling you a little higher up until you can get your legs bent under you again and, as your hips automatically roll against where his body is slowly starting to take note, he can’t help but grind back in response with a low, “Fuck.”

“Not right now,” you murmur, voice low and soft; a tease, more a promise. “Just this.”

Frank mutters something under his breath with a small shake of his head, the passion in his kisses and the urgency of his hands betraying how much _he_ wants this, even if his body doesn’t. It’s a stark juxtaposition, one that you daren’t think too hard about; it doesn’t truly matter, anyway, not right now. Not when he’s beneath you, around you, _loving_ you…

You exhale a throaty groan when one of his hands slips between your legs, fingertips teasing where you’re wet and aching for him, but somehow find it in you to break the kiss and reach down to grip his wrist to stop him. “You don’t have t-”

“Want to,” he gravels, unlatching your fingers from his wrist and bringing your hand up to his chest before firmly gripping your hip. “Want this. Want you.”

“Frank…” His name is lost in the gasp that escapes your lips, gets swallowed up by a kiss that’s dirty and perfect and _everything_ , and you can’t help but arch your back a little like a satisfied cat as he uses the hand that isn’t making you see stars to get your hips rolling again.

The angle shouldn’t work, your bodies too close in the wrong position, but somehow he makes it happen anyway; every movement rubs your clit against his palm as he slides one, then two fingers inside you and crooks them just right, almost like you’re riding them, until you’re desperately gripping his shoulder and making tiny mewling sounds against his lips.

“That’s it,” he rumbles as he lifts his hand from your hip to cup the side of your neck, keeping your forehead pressed tight to his as he makes short, sharp movements with his fingers inside you.

You gasp into his mouth, lips parted and eyes screwing shut against the onslaught as your breaths turn into quick, shallow inhales that do little to give you proper air.

“There,” he murmurs, low and soft with just a hint of satisfaction. “Right… _there.”_

All at once, your body seizes against him and his lips meet yours in an almost brutal kiss, swallowing your long groan as pleasure surges through every nerve, every synapse…

Even as the aftershocks kick in, you grip his shoulders and push yourself a little more upright, ignoring the tremble in your limbs that makes you want to just collapse against him, then whimper when he carefully withdraws his fingers from your sensitive flesh.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, gazing up at you.

You breathe out a laugh that’s more air than anything else, then shuffle a few inches back to settle on his thighs so you can’t crush him before sitting up fully and arching your back, releasing what little tension remains from being hunched over like you were.

“Mmm…” you hum, aware that satisfaction’s probably radiating off you but unwilling to hide it.

After a moment of silence, you gaze down at Frank again and release a sad sigh when you realize he’s so quiet is that he’s frowning at his own body, still barely more than half-hard.

“Frank,” you try to soothe, but he just shakes his head in frustration and looks up at you guiltily.

“This don’t…” He raises a hand to scrub over his face, jaw tightening slightly. “I… I’m sor-”

“Stop,” you chide as you gently cradle his face in your hands, letting your thumbs stroke over his skin. “It’s okay.” You smile sadly in understanding. “I get it.”

 _“I_ don’t.” He grits his teeth, words stilted and rough. “I feel-… I want-…” He lets out a low growl. “Don’t fuckin’ make sense.”

You take a moment. Think it through.

“No, it…” You breathe out a soft sigh. “It _does_.” You lift a hand and push back your hair from your face, trying to figure out how to explain it. “I don’t think either of us ever really… we never thought of it before, ‘cause we, uh… never needed to, I guess? But now that… y’know…”

You look down at his chest, suddenly a little uncomfortable.

“Hey…”

Before he can say anymore, you roll off him to sit by his side instead, not wanting to make either of you feel pinned down in any way while talking about _this._ To bridge the gap, you reach out and gently trail your fingertips over his chest, considering your words carefully.

“You said, once, that you knew where this thing between us was headed,” you recall, keeping your voice low and even as you watch your fingers glide across his skin. “And I think that… the closer we get to that? The more we, uh…” Your brow furrows, fingers stalling against his chest. “The more we feel?” You force yourself to meet his gaze. “I think maybe it creates a certain kind of crossover, y’know? Confuses things a bit?”

“I don’t…” He frowns, shaking his head a little. “That ain’t… I’m not _confused_ , yeah? I _know_ exactly what I feel, which is why  _this_ doesn’t make-”

“You love your wife,” you almost-blurt, though your tone is still soft and steady. “Not _loved._ Love. And this big, beautiful thing right here?” You lightly tap his heart before meeting his gaze. “It feels that every day. It feels the _loss_ of her. So when there’s no adrenaline going, no roughness or control overriding everything else… when it’s just you and me and the lines between this thing of _ours_ and your life with _her_ blur and emotion is right there at the forefront?” You shrug, suddenly feeling just as exposed as he probably does. “Makes it harder to separate stuff physically so…. I dunno, guess it just makes sense to me. That your body wouldn’t… y’know… want me the same way it does her?” You grimace. “Fuck, that’s not… I’m messing this up.”

“No.  _I_ am,” he gets out roughly as his hand moves to cover yours. “If I’ve made you think I don’t _want_ you, I-”

“It’s not that. I know you do,” you whisper with a smile, feeling your eyes glaze with tears. Not for you; for him. For his loss. “But you want her, too. You _miss_ her. Body _and_ mind. So… when things slow down, the lines get blurred.”

The way he says your name in response… it sends goosebumps along your skin.

“It’s okay,” you promise earnestly. “She’s your _wife_ , Frank. You won’t ever stop feeling that way about her.” You cup his cheek again and smile, gaze holding his. “How could you? So don’t… don’t get in your head about this, yeah? The way we are? The intensity and the roughness and…” You struggle to find the right words to describe it. “It’s _good_ , it’s… fuck, it’s the best sex I’ve ever had, but that doesn’t mean it’s _only_ sex. It, uh… It doesn’t suddenly mean nothing just because… just because there’s an _edge_ to it, y’know? It still _feels_ the same, still _means_ as much as-”

You catch yourself, jaws snapping shut to keep any more words from spilling out.

_Jesus, were you seriously about to put your relationship with him on the same level as the one he had with his wife like that? With sex?_

“I am _so_ sorry, that’s…” You go to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let you. _Abort. Abort. Before you ruin things even more._ “I’m just tryna say it’s okay not to have that, that I like the way we are, but feels like I’m only making it worse, so…”

Before he can say anything, his cell-phone starts to ring.

The curse that escapes him is low and bitter. “ _Fuck._ ”

Unsure if the interruption is the best or worst thing that could be happening right now, you go to reach for the device, only for him to gently tug your hand with a shake of his head, eyes full of something you doubt you’ll have time to process.

“Karen or Micro?” you ask quietly, if not a little resignedly, tipping your head in the direction of his phone.

Frank shakes his head, fingers tightening their grip even as his eyes dart towards the device. “Don’t matter – they can wai-”

Your own cell-phone starts to blare out obnoxiously from the other side of the bed, adding to the cacophony of noise.

“Micro,” you deduce, then break Frank’s now-loose hold to grab his cell before crazy alarms or other shit start going off as well. “Hello?”

“ _Put Frank on!”_

Frank sits up and shakes his head again, willing you to ignore the command, but something in Micro’s voice makes you hesitate.

“Micro, what’s-”

_“Please, let me talk to him. I need- I need him right now. I-”_

You press the device against Frank’s ear before Micro even finishes his sentence and let your empty hands start to fidget in your lap.

“David?”

The voice is tinny, but you can still make out the desperation on the other end of the line. _“The feed to my house is gone, I can’t… I need you to get over there right now. I can’t see them, I can’t see my family anymore, please, Frank, you gotta-”_

Frank’s gaze flicks to yours, eyes betraying his hesitation even as Micro laments in his ear.

You nod your head and force a small smile, giving him permission he doesn’t need.

He breathes out a soft sigh, then reaches out with his spare hand to cup the back of your neck and draw you forward so he can press his lips hard against your forehead.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to hold it together.

They don’t open again until the front door shuts behind him.

_(Fuck.)_

* * *

The next few hours fucking _crawl_ by.

You can’t sleep, don’t even bother trying, but you feel so wiped out you wish you could.

 _That_ was not the way you wanted to have that conversation.

It wasn’t even a fucking conversation, though, was it? It was a bulldoze of a monologue that just…

You groan under your breath and run a hand through your matted hair, suddenly remembering the rain and  _his_ hand in your hair the night before.

A shower.

You need a fucking shower.

You pick up your cell-phone and check for any unread messages, even though you _know_ he hasn’t sent you any.

_(You’ve been checking every few minutes since he left, after all.)_

Fuck it.

You chuck your phone onto the bed and head into the bathroom.

Better make this shower a cold one.

* * *

_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK._

“HEY!”

You freeze halfway through towel-drying your hair, heart stalling at the realization that, yes, that is your door being banged on obnoxiously by a stranger.

“HEY!!! OPENNN UP’N THERE!”

_KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK._

“I NEED T’TALK T’YOU!”

Panic setting full-force, you rush out of the bathroom, clutching your towel to your body as you almost dive onto the bed for your cell-phone.

The banging at the door continues, clumsy and loud, and your hands shake violently as you try to dial Frank’s number.

“C’MON... OPEN UP!”

Before you can hit _send_ , a call from Micro takes over the screen and you almost cry with relief as you hit _answer._

“Micro!” you whisper urgently as you scramble across the bed to grab for the gun Frank has taken to leaving in his box of books for you. “Micro, thank God, there’s-”

 _“S’me. Jesus,”_ comes the slurred response. One you can hear through the door as well as the phone. “ _Jus’lemme’n.”_

Something cold runs down your spine and you find yourself clicking off the safety of your gun.

 _“Sr’sly?”_ A loud sigh comes through the phone and a dull thud emanates from the door. “ _We gonna do thiss?”_

You swallow thickly, then move the phone so it’s pinned between your ear and shoulder and raise your gun, adjusting your stance in preparation to fire. “Five seconds. Tell me something no one else knows.”

There’s a pause.

You finger the trigger.

“ _Firs’time y’fucked Frank?”_ Micro begins, _“In that alley near your diner, next t’two dead bodiesss. ‘N then in his truck… On the truck. Next t’th’truck. Lots of fuckin’ on the truck… ‘N th’n- n’then ‘gainst another wall. Pretty rough, that time, ‘cause he juss’ killed s’meone but you di’n’t care.”_ You flush, faltering slightly at the memory. _“S’that your kink or his, by’th’way? Th’wall thing? ‘Cause… Lotta wall sex w’you two. All the wall sex. Izzat… Izzat a strength thing? ‘Cause he’s all… all rawr ‘n’ muscle ‘n’_ big?  _Like, gonna kill y’big? That a turn on f’you? Or is he_ big _big, too? Izzat why Sarah-”_

You pull open the door.

It takes Micro half a second to look up and notice you there, but when he does he gives you a lazy smile and leans even more heavily on the doorframe, body swaying slightly. “Hey.”

“Jesus.” You flick on the safety of your gun before tucking it and your cell phone away. “You’re drunk.”

“Yep,” he confirms with a pop on the ‘p’. “But I’m’llowed to be right now. Why aren’t _you_ drunkkk?”

You avoid the finger he points near your face and struggle not to roll your eyes. “Go home, Micro.”

“H’me?” He laughs bitterly. “Cn’t go _home_ , ‘cause your boyf’nds there… fixin’ shit n’… n’ eatin’ my ench’ladas…  kissin’ my wife…”

“Kissing your…” Your brow furrows as you try to process what he said. “Wait, _what?”_

“Your boyfriend,” he responds, slowly and clearly and so _miserable_ sounding that you actually take a moment to comprehend the _truth_ of what he’s saying, “kissed my wife.”

“Frank… _kissed_ your wife,” you repeat dumbly, not even noticing your casual acceptance of Micro’s take on your relationship in your stunned confusion.

“Uh-huh.” Micro nods drunkenly, then lifts a clumsy finger to poke his own lips. “Riiiight here.”

You shake your head.

_No._

_No, that can’t be right._

“Turned on th’router and BOOM!” He gestures what you think is meant to be an explosion with his hands. “Right there, on m’screen. Kissing. An-And _I… I_ should be th’one kissin’ her. Not Frrrank. S’not… S’not right.”

Micro starts scrambling for something in his pocket and you instinctively take a step back, suddenly just as wary as before you opened the door.

“Here… L-Look.”

He shoves his phone in your face and you feel your eyebrows raise at the grainy images in front of you.

That’s…

That’s definitely Frank.

And that’s…

You exhale a slow breath.

That’s definitely his lips pressed against someone else’s.

“See?” Micro sighs resignedly. “They kissed. In my house. Right in front of me. And-And he _knew_ I was watchin’, ‘cause I asked him to go, and…”

You bring the phone a little closer to your face and try your best to tune him out, watching the video again from the very start because…

“No… they didn’t,” you mumble with a shake of your head as you rewind once more. “Frank… Frank didn’t kiss her.  _She_ kissed _him._ ” You turn the phone towards him. “Look – he pulls awa-”

Micro grabs the device off you and shoves it back in his pocket, almost dropping it on the floor in the process. “Duzzat matter?”

“Yes,” you tell him, then breathe out a sigh of your own. It’s not relief; you knew it didn’t make sense for Frank to have kissed her right from the start. It’s more… understanding. “To him, it matters. And… to _you_ , I think?” You glance up and meet Micro’s half-shut gaze. “That’s why you’re here, right? Why you’re drunk? Not because she kissed Frank, but because she kissed _someone?”_

He shrugs too dismissively to be genuine. “Was gonna happen sometime. W’someone.” He closes his eyes, misery written all over his face. “Guessit makes sense it’d’be him.”

Something in you softens, and you find yourself relaxing despite how uncomfortable being around a drunk not-quite-stranger normally makes you feel. “Micro…”

He waves a hand clumsily in front of him. “I’ve seen you nearly naked, so… David. M’name’s David.”

Refusing to feel embarrassed by the revelation, you take a step back and gesture for him to step inside.

“Okay,  _David who has seen me nearly naked._ Let’s talk.”

* * *

 _“This_ is how he’s dealing with this, huh?” Franks asks almost an hour later from his spot on the other side of the door.

You twist round to gaze at where David’s sprawled across the couch, the precariously balanced bottle of whisky on his stomach much emptier than it had been half an hour ago.

“Yep,” you confirm, then turn back to look at Frank with a slight smile curving your lips.

He doesn’t see it, though; too busy staring down at the floor, on edge, like he’s waiting for a fight.

Because he is.

 _Of course_ he is.

“Hey,” you murmur as you reach out, thumb sweeping over the skin of his forearm. “You okay?”

He looks up at you, surprise plain on his features.

_It’s alright, Frank. I’ve already dealt with it._

You let your hand slip along his arm until your fingers can brush his.

He blinks. Once. Twice…

_Oh, Frank._

You step forward, slow and easy, then push up on your toes and press your lips to his.

All the tension in his body deflates at once and he lets out the softest of moans, hands rising to grip your hips as you gently cup his face and let your chest push against his so he can feel you there, with him.

He squeezes you tight, leans into you until your back arches a little and it suddenly hits home just how static the Frank on that video was, how clammed-up and rigid his body went the moment Sarah’s lips touched his, and you can’t help the warm fondness that fills your chest as a result.

(Yeah. That kiss was _nothing_ compared to this. Not even close.)

You linger there for a moment as the kiss ends, letting him breathe you in, then slowly lower yourself onto the flats of your feet again and stroke his cheeks with your thumbs to soothe him.

“Are you okay?”  you repeat, voice even softer this time.

“Yeah,” he mumbles as he breathes out a sigh you feel as much as hear, his relief just as strong as his exhaustion. “Yeah, I’m… I’m…”

He trails off, but you understand him anyway.

_I’m overwhelmed. I’m tired. I’m not sure how to deal with this._

Smiling softly, you take a step back and reach for his hand; an invitation to come inside.

After a moment’s hesitation, he threads his fingers with yours and lets you guide him across the threshold, reluctant to let go even as you have to stretch to shut the door behind him.

“C’mon,” you coax as you lead him to the kitchen to grab more alcohol. “Looks like you need this just as much as he does.”

“I-I don’t…” Frank starts to protest, but you turn to face him with what you hope is an unimpressed look, though you can’t quite keep the softness from your expression.

“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” you tell him, leaving no room for argument. “You can afford a drink or two.”

Frank nods in reluctant acceptance, but as you turn to reach for another bottle he tugs on your hand to stop you. “No wine.”

“No wine?” you question, frowning slightly in confusion.

“Please,” Frank urges quietly, if not a little desperately.

While you still aren’t quite sure exactly what took place at Micro’s house, the look in Frank’s eye gives you a clue and you find yourself relenting, fingers closing around a fresh bottle of whisky instead. “This okay? I’d offer you the good stuff, but…”

“I drank it,” Micro calls from the couch, unapologetic and slurred as he makes his presence known.

“I can tell,” Frank gravels back, though his eyes stay fixed on yours.

You smile up at him, then hand him the bottle and tip your head in the direction of the couch.

_I got you. We’re okay._

 

 

(He sits down on the floor with his back against his boxes and you squeeze onto the couch near Micro’s feet, but when his free hand curls around your ankle you know.

He’s got you too.)


	16. Rip Current

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> If you're reading this, thanks for sticking with me! I know I said this chapter wouldn't take long, but these two just put up a fight and I couldn't get it to work, only to go back and realise what was stopping them... Themselves!
> 
> I REALLY hope you guys enjoy this one as it's probably the hardest chapter I've written so far - it was emotionally draining in a weird cathartic way.
> 
> Good news is the stuff I tried to fit in this chapter that didn't work was actually destined for chapter 17 all along, it seems, so that honestly shouldn't take too long to get out... Advanced spoiler warning for episode 9 of The Punisher for that chapter, though because... plot!
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts, as they truly get my arse into gear and mean the world.
> 
> Love, Soph x

The night passes in waves.

A little awkwardness at first.

Stunted conversation.

Tiptoeing around the elephant in the room.

Until, eventually, mutual ground is explored.

An understanding is reached.

A bridge is formed.

And then…

Shit, and then it’s _guitars._

It’s first meetings.

Music in the park.

Laughter.

Popsicle costumes.

Cringeworthy memories of drunken antics.

Like toast, of all things.

_So much_ toast.

And it’s light and it’s good and it’s _fun…_

But…

Entwined in all that lie peonies.

Regrets.

Paintings on garage doors.

Bittersweet memories that make your eyes sting…

You listen to all of it without truly speaking, just the occasional comment or remark to let them know you’re paying attention, and you hear how much they miss their families in every stumbled-over word they utter, _see_ the longing on their faces as they remember, and… your heart fucking _hurts_ from it.

God… it hurts, and it hurts, and… as David recounts how his daughter broke her arm once a few years ago, the sheer concern and worry in his voice over it even now, it… it makes you realize something about yourself you’d never normally admit, never dare even believe, but-

“I envy that,” you blurt as the words escape you in a rush you can’t stop, interrupting him with a lack of finesse and sensitivity that you’re going to kick yourself for in the morning.

“A br’k’n ‘rm?” David mumbles clumsily with an almost comically deep frown. He’s lying almost upside down on the couch now, head dangling off the edge and legs slung lazily over the seat back, but somehow manages to look in your direction.

“No, not… not the arm break. Been there… done that,” you mumble, absently rubbing your forearm like the itch of the plaster’s still there over a decade on. “I’m talking about the, uh… the _worry,_ y’know? The care you show ‘em?”

“M’their Dad,” Micro replies dumbly, as if it’s as simple as that, and suddenly everything seems to spill out in a torrent all at once.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” you tell him, limbs a little jittery as you sit more upright against the couch. “That. Right there. For you, it’s… it’s not even an _option,_ it’s just your-your default to think about them that way and to-to _do_ shit for ‘em no matter what, right? I mean, shit, you… you cage yourself in here, ‘cause that’s the only way to keep ‘em safe, and… and the whole time you watch ‘em on that screen and think of all the good times you had, don’t you? You think of how good it was to be with them and, fuck, you even think of how the bad shit was good because at least you had them, yeah?”

David frowns, like the words are delayed in their processing.

“For _you,_ your family’s your world,” you continue fervidly. “You’re their dad and you love them more than anything, so you’re doing everything you can to be with them again. Aren’t you?”

“Course I am!” David shoots back almost angrily, messily turning upright to face you, legs akimbo and brows furrowed deeply. “They’re my kids! How c’d you even doubt-”

“I don’t doubt that,” you cut in before he can get worked up. “Not for a single second. But that’s kinda my point.”

The look David gives you is so confused, it’d almost be comical if this weren’t such a shit topic for you.

Heaving a weary sigh, you reach out to take the almost empty bottle of whiskey from his slacked hand.

“I never had that,” you confide as you roll the bottle between your palms. You haven’t had too much, just enough to loosen your tongue and limbs, but now the words are flowing you want to almost drown yourself in it. “Never had good times to reminisce about. Never had anyone look out for me or… or _love_ me…” You feel eyes on you, but don’t truly register they’re Frank’s; you’re too busy focusing on David. “Fuck, man, nobody’s _ever_ worried ‘bout my broken bones and, trust me, I’ve had more than my fair share of those.”

_Ribs. Arm. Leg. Collar-bone. Finger._

You supress a shudder.

(Telling Daredevil you’ve had worse was one of the few confessions you made to him that night that weren’t hidden within a half-truth.)

“I mean, my ‘ _family’?”_ You scoff at the word, bitterness an ugly abomination in your throat. “They only ever gave a shit when it came to getting themselves _into_ shit, y’know? Fuck, they… they stole and they lied and they cheated and _then?_ Then there were the Goddamn _drugs_ and threats over missed payments and the questions at school and the almost-overdoses and the _sick_ and… the worst part? The bit that _kills_ me? Not once did a single one of them ever stop to think about how it affected _me.”_

Your voice trembles on that last word, and you grip the whisky bottle tightly with both hands, knuckles going white as you try to keep your composure.

“ _I_ spent the whole of my _miserable_ life taking the blows and cleaning up after them and-and bailing them out and covering bills they couldn’t pay… _I_ was the one who picked up the Goddamn pieces, even though I was always _in_ pieces because of them, and they never even noticed.” You shake your head and look down at the bottle in your hands, picking at the bottle to distract yourself from the ugly rage-hate-misery that’s threatening to take over. “So here I am now, years later and half the damn country away from it all, listening to you talk about _your_ family and… even though I know you lost them and they lost you and it kills _you_ not to be with them, I can’t help feeling…”

_Sad. Wistful. Angry. Bitter. Resentful._

_Lonely._

“I dunno,” you dismiss quickly with a shake of your head. “It doesn’t matter, but... at least you _had_ it, yeah? You fuckin’ _had them._ Right there.” You hate the emotion that seeps through into every word you say. You _hate_ it. “At the end of it all, you’ll know they loved you and you loved them, and that means you have something _good_ to hold onto, but me?”

The corner of your mouth turns up in a bitter half-smile that feels more like a grimace.

“I _don’t_. And so…” You shrug clumsily and lift the bottle to your lips. “I _envy_ it.”

You take a long drink, way more than a couple of measures, then cough slightly at the burn it leaves behind before reaching across to hand it back to David.

When he hesitates to take it from you, you look up at his face, and it’s like some weird, distorted record player repeats your own words in your mind and the reality of what you just said sinks in, making you wish you could take it all right back again.

Jesus.

Who the fuck do you think you _are?_

“ _I envy your pain, because at least you had the good shit first,_ ” you mock, then huff out a strained laugh. “What the fuck kinda person makes out your suffering is something to _covet?_ Jesus fuckin’…” You shove the bottle back into his hands like it’s a live grenade. “Get back to talking about Leo, I’m sorry, I shoulda kept my fucking mouth shut. I don’t know why I even…”

You trail off, and the silence that follows is so tense, you actually feel tears prick at your eyes.

_You shouldn’t be here._

_They should be talking, just the two of them, without you poking your fucking nose in._

_Get out._

_Walk away._

_Leave._

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” you croak as you stand up on unsteady feet, mortification kicking in full swing. “M’gonna just-”

You gesture vaguely towards the bathroom, then brace one hand against the frame of the couch to help you make a desperate exit over the back of it, cussing yourself out in your own head as you climb onto the seat cushion and prepare to swing your leg over.

_What the fuck were you thinking, you stupid,_ stupid, _moronic, insensitive bi-_

“You said something, once.”

Horror fucking _freezes_ you in place, half-straddling the back of the couch.

_OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod…_

Your eyes widen almost comically and your heart _drops._

_Nononononono…_

Did you really just say that shit in front of fucking _Frank?!_ Of all Goddamn people?

“Fr-Frank…” you try to plead, beg, bargain as you twist round to look at him, suddenly feeling painfully vulnerable. “I’m so sor-”

“When I went to stitch you up, you…” He speaks lowly, carefully, like something delicate’s clicking into place. “You said something. Something you shouldn’t’ve known.”

You swallow thickly, brain too busy trying to comprehend the lack of rage, the soft tone and the look of Goddamn _understanding_ on his face, to realize what he’s referring to until…

He shifts from his position against the wall and reaches for the leg that hasn’t made it over the couch yet, fingertips trailing a long line down the back of your calf.

_Oh._

_Oh, shit._

_“This_ taught you that,” he murmurs, gaze meeting yours. “Didn’t it?”

_Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit._

He would, of course, have noticed the ugly mess of a scar beneath his fingers ages back; it’s not easy to miss that up close and personal, after all. The fact he’s put it together with _that_ like this, though...

You shudder, calf muscle twitching with the urge to run.

That’s enough to give him his answer; you can see it in his eyes.

It make you feel exposed, like you’ve been scrubbed raw, and…

You don’t.

Know.

How.

To.

Respond.

“Fr-…” Your throat cuts you off, tightening painfully.

You don’t talk about that night.

Never have, promised yourself you never will.

You’ve already said too much as it is.

“I don-…”

You look down.

Stare at the worn back cushions of the couch.

You can’t do this.

_No way._

_Get out._

_Walk away._

_Leave._

You shift your weight.

Let your foot brush the floor behind the couch…

But then, just as you prepare to move your free leg out from under his touch and finally get out of there for good, you catch sight of his arms.

The thick, long strip of tissue marring the left.

The cuts and bruises in different stages of healing on the other.

Cracked knuckles.

Bitten nails.

You pause.

_(That’s right._

_He has scars, too._

_Inside and out.)_

You can trust him with this.

You know you can.

You push off the floor a little with your toes, bringing your weight back to central.

“It…” You swallow thickly, letting yourself settle more firmly on the back of the couch. “I…”

_Want to break that promise._

The realization is… freeing, but when you open your mouth again…

The words won’t come out.

The box won’t unlock.

The stories stay buried.

_(Huh._

_Maybe you have a door, just like him.)_

You can’t just say nothing, though. You can’t let this freedom slip away.

“Yeah,” you force out instead, voice small and stilted. “It did.”

Frank dips his chin in a solitary, understanding nod and, somehow, even though you don’t have anything left in the tank to give him, the gesture is enough to loosen your lips a little more.

“After _that_ I…” You clear your throat. “I patched myself up best I could, grabbed whatever I could carry, and… Never looked back.”

You gaze down at your calf, twisting your leg a little to view the scar a little better.

_(Still as gnarly as ever.)_

“I did a crappy job,” you acknowledge with a self-deprecating laugh. “My hands kept shaking and I was too dizzy to clean things right so it ended up getting infected, but…” You shrug. “The scar healed. Eventually.”

Frank’s fingers curl around your ankle again, but they’re not what keep you in place; his eyes are.

“They always do,” he rumbles, just as low and just as loaded. “Some just do it sooner than others.”

You nod, biting down on your bottom lip as you fight back the stream of emotion threatening to spill over.

Frank squeezes your ankle, drawing you in, and… all you want is to crawl inside him, wrap yourself in the feel of him, take his warmth and breathe him in and exhale your secrets in return…

It’d be so easy.

He’d let you in, arms wide open.

It wouldn’t take much.

_Take it. Hold it. It’s yours._

“What’s… What’re you…” David peers around the two of you. “Oh.” He frowns. “ _Oh!_ Right! You two are… this is a _moment._ This is a mom’nt and I’m int’rupting the moment, and-”

“David,” Frank interrupts, his voice like gravel, rough enough to spark something in your belly. “Stop talking.”

“Sure. Yeah. That’s…” David flusters, then finally gets the hint and gets to his feet clumsily. “I’m gonna take a leak.”

You chuckle under your breath as you hear him stumble away, then look up to the ceiling and blink away a couple of stray tears, as overwhelmed as you are.

It takes a good few moments for the sea inside you to calm, but once it has you swing your leg back over the couch to face Frank more fully only to find he’s on his feet now (you forget how quietly he can move sometimes) and, although he’s not quite pacing yet, trepidation still kicks in again.

_(The conversation’s not over, is it?)_

“So…” you begin quietly to break the tension before it can truly build, “That’s not how I wanted to, uh… you know… do that.  I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just…”

Frank nods absently, gaze a thousand miles away.

You know him well enough by now to know that he’s thinking hard over something – something that’s bothering him – and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what it might be.

“Y-You can ask,” you murmur, drawing his attention your way again. “Whatever i-it is you wanna, uh, wanna know, I’ll try to, um… I’ll try to explain? But it may just, uh, it may take me a while to-”

“Stop,” he cuts in softly with a raise of his hand.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek as your fingers start to twist and untwist themselves in your lap, full-on anxiety taking hold.

You can do this.

Deep breaths.

Whatever he asks, you’ll-

“I just wanna know one thing.”

“O-Okay,” you acquiesce, nodding slightly.

Frank shifts position and leans against the wall, jaw tightening for a moment before asking, “Why?”

You frown. “Wh-Why?”

“Yeah,” Frank confirms, meeting your gaze dead on. “Why stop me?”

“Stop you from…?”

It takes a second.

Maybe two.

But then it suddenly hits you what he means, and…

Your voice cracks. “Frank…”

“After all the shit… after what they _did_ to you…” he pushes, brow furrowed deep. “Why didn’t you give him up? Shit, why take him in in the first place? Why not tell him to go to Hell with the rest of ‘em?”

You heave a weary sigh, shoulders sinking with the weight they hold.

(You’ve been asking yourself the same Goddamn question for weeks.)

“I get you not telling  _me_ , yeah? I ain’t trying to restart that argument,” Frank continues through your hesitation. “But you sure as shit weren’t gonna tell the cops either, were you? You didn’t even let Red take you to a hospital, for Christ’s sake – and don’t try’n deny that either, ‘cause we both know that’s where you would’ve been if it’d been up to him, yeah?”

“You’re right,” you admit, shifting uncomfortably. _God, what you wouldn’t do to have one of Frank’s hoodies on right now..._ “It’s… complicated, okay? It… Fuck, I don’t…”

You groan under your breath and let yourself drop down to sit on the main couch cushion, just to have something to support you.

_How do you explain something you don’t completely understand yourself?_

“I, uh… I guess it…” You grimace, pulling your legs up tight to stop them bouncing anxiously. “Look, you gotta understand that night I… that night I learned about stitches?”

Frank’s gaze dips to the scar on your calf, and you find yourself covering it with your fingers, tracing the uneven line without realizing.

“He, uh… He wasn’t part of that, he didn’t do it, but…” You swallow thickly and raise your free hand to run through your hair, nails lightly scratching at your crown. “He saw me. At the bus stop. Y’know… after. Could barely walk, I was in so much pain, and my face, it… it was messed up ‘cause… ‘cause of everythin’, and I thought that was it, y’know? I thought he’d take me right back into that Hell again, but instead he…”

You exhale an almost-laugh and let your arms wrap around your legs in some kind of self-hug.

“He dropped a fifty on the ground right by me and kept going, like he’d never seen me, like it was no big deal, and don’t… don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he knew what was doing, not really, anyway,” you manage to continue. “Not sure how much he knew about it all ‘cause he was clean back then, livin’ with his wife and happy, but… that money gave me my ticket outta there and what he did gave me the head start I needed, so…”

You worry your bottom lip again and blink back the sharp tears you’re surprised to feel stinging your eyes, suddenly lost for words; you’ve never dared think this hard about it before.

“I guess maybe part of me felt that… y’know, maybe he…” You have to clear your throat to dislodge the lump in it. “Maybe he actually… _felt_ or… maybe he was the one person who…” You shrug, giving up trying to explain it. “Dunno, really. Wishful thinking, whatever it was. Looking back, I know I should’ve cut ties with him, but we kept in touch here and there after I changed my number and got settled, built some kind of relationship back up with each other, so then when he showed up needing my help I… I couldn’t bring myself to say no and… well, we both know how that ended up playing out.”

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

“At first part of me thought maybe he didn’t realize, y’know?” You’re struggling, now, floundering a little as you start to babble, defend, explain. “Maybe he had no clue, that he ran off not knowing what they’d do, what the consequences would be, but… Pretty fucking stupid on my part, right? He’s my mother’s brother; I should’ve known better.”

“That’s not… You weren’t stupid; you just didn’t see…” Frank shakes his head, face troubled, like he’s struggling with something himself. “What happened to you ain’t your fault, yeah? You couldn’t have known that it’d go that way, no chance.”

“I did, though,” you insist, resignedly. “I did. So I have no right to feel the way I do about David’s family, none at all… I brought this on myself.”

“I envy your sex life.”

You freeze.

Blink. Hard.

_What?_

“I have no right to either, but like, I _really_ envy it,” David continues from behind you, and you turn in stunned surprise to face the man you’d almost forgotten about. “The two-a’ you, you get to…” He makes a crude, vague thrusting gesture. “Y’know, get it on… bump uglies… whenever you want it, it’s there. And me? I miss sex.  _Good_ sex. Proper sex. With my wife. With Sarah.”

You shake your head disbelievingly, trying to comprehend the rapid shift in conversation.

_Is this… is he really…_

“Shit, I miss makin’ love to my wife,” David sighs, completely unaware of the turmoil he’s caused within you. “Y’know, that real _‘I love you’_ kinda sex, not just… you know… _‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’_ sex?”

“I…” Words fail you as Frank retreats a few paces, leaving you weak-kneed and tight-chested because _what the fuck_.

“I know it’s your thing, but… a fuck ‘gainst a truck?” David continues to babble as he approaches. “That kinda shit? No way. Not for me. Nuh-uh. That first time? When I’m with her again? I wanna make _love_ to my wife. Not jus’ fuck her.”

You swallow thickly and attempt not to take the implication to heart, but it’s all too fucking much to take at once and you find yourself sinking against the back of the couch for support with your gaze cast to your lap and a sting in your chest you can’t quite shake.

“’Cause I’m _ser’sly_ well endowed, you know,” David keeps rambling as he comes to flop onto the couch beside you and sprawls across it. “Like, seriously, _strangely_ well endowed, I mean… I’m hung like a _moose_ and my wife, she… wow, she… is a _passionate_ woman. We had good sex, y’know? The _best_ sex.”

“Good for you,” Frank acknowledges roughly, sounding just as rattled as you are. “You must be so proud.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, _”_ David shoots back with a pointed glare in your direction. “She brought up the envy shit, not me! I’m try’na relate.”

“Please don’t,” you mumble tiredly, lifting a hand to run it through your hair.

“Hey, don’ act like y’don’t know what I mean,” David challenges, steam-rolling over you as he turns more towards Frank, gesturing loosely. “You tellin’ me you don’t miss makin’ love with your wife? You don’t miss that kinda sex?”

Frank stiffens.

So do you.

_Oh, God._

“’Cause, I mean, it’s gotta be different, right? Makin’ love to your wife, not just… well… you know. A casual fuck with someone you don’t really care about type thing?”

Your gut clenches, absorbing the blow.

_Ouch._

“No offence,” David quickly tacks on, clumsily tapping your knee. “But… it’s different, isn’t it? The sex. More… Dunno, more special, right? Better?”

Frank’s fingers start to flutter again, almost as fast as your heart.

“M’gonna get another drink,” you mutter brokenly as you push yourself to your feet, skin crawling with unease.

Whether it’s shock or nerves making you unsteady, you’re not quite sure, but it takes more effort than you expect to co-ordinate your limbs enough to get you heading to the kitchen, and you find yourself hyper-aware of _everything_ as you pass them both on your way _._

Every step echoes and your breathing seems unbearably loud in the void left behind by David’s statement; the clink of your mug as you take it out the dish rack makes you wince.

“Look, I’m tryna have a conversation, here,” David implores, blissfully clueless to the tension coiling in Frank’s muscles and way your hands shake as you start to make yourself some coffee.

(You don’t even realize you’re preparing two cups until the kettle’s already boiling, as on autopilot as you are.)

“‘Cause, remember, I’ve seen you two fuck, you know,” he continues to dig, “And trust me, that ain’t what makin’ love looks like. Not in my book.”

“Shut your Goddamn mouth right now, Lieberman, or I swear to Christ…” Frank growls, but it’s too late; David’s too far down the rabbit hole to turn back now.

“Unless… is that your _thing?”_ David asks curiously. “The rough stuff? Were you like that with your wi-”

The sound of Frank’s foot slamming into the table makes you jump; the screech of the wood sliding across the floor echoes horrifically in the air.

And then…

Silence.

Not even the sound of breathing.

…

…

…

F… u… c… k…

You clench the counter with both hands and clamp your eyes shut tight, body bowing slightly.

This… This _hurts._ This-

You tighten your jaw and shut that train of thought down before it can really start, shaking your head to yourself.

No.

No, this crosses a line.

This is too much.

(Keeping things separate hasn’t only been to protect _him_ , after all.)

It’s not… it’s not because the mention of his wife makes you… it’s not a betrayal to have what you have with him when she’s… but it’s still…

Fuck, you can’t even explain it in your own _head._

But then Frank shifts in place.

Clears his throat.

Exhales an unsteady breath.

And _speaks._

“I was with Maria for three months when she got pregnant with Lisa,” he gravels, voice low and tense. “Ain’t ever really thought about kids, then, still early on and learnin’ each other, but… she said she wasn’t giving her up. Didn’t wanna raise her alone, but… she understood if I didn’t wanna hang around and be part of it. I asked her to marry me that day.”

You bite down hard on your bottom lip and open your eyes to stare down at the kitchen counter.

“Now, sure, we… we had problems. We fought about a lot of shit that didn’t even matter, ‘cause she had a wicked temper and, fuck… I was a shit husband towards the end. Out on deployment, always leaving her with the kids, and then when I _was_ home… I wasn’t. Not really. Not the way I should’ve been.” He heaves an exhausted sigh. “And I guess it’s easy to forget all that, sometimes, the bad shit. Feels wrong to… to talk about her like that, like she wasn’t… perfect, y’know? But she’d… she’d be turnin’ in her grave if I said she was. Fuckin’ spitfire, Maria was, she’d fuck me up just with her words and tear me a new one everytime, but _shit_ … I miss that.”

The kettle rumbles as it finishes boiling, but you daren’t try to pick it up.

“I miss her fuckin’ _goin’_ at me whenever I pissed her off, how she’d just… she’d give me this look, you know? And, shit… I’d know I fucked up, and we’d argue and she’d call me out on my bullshit, but…” He huffs out a half-laugh. “God, I miss her. Her smile… Her fuckin’ _laugh._ Shit, she had the best damn laugh, y’know? Fuckin’ loved hearing that shit.”

You close your eyes against the tears that threaten to fall at the sheer _emotion_ in his voice.

Your heart hurts for him.

It _aches._

_(It’s not fair._

_You’re here, able to love and be loved by him, and she’s… not._

_And yes, Frank’s heart will always belong to her, but knowing some of it’s now shared with you?_

_It feels almost like stealing.)_

“And I miss how great a mom she was to our kids, yeah? She couldn’t do hair for shit before she got pregnant, but as soon as she found out we were havin’ a girl she started watching all these tutorials on YouTube or whatever it was back then, just so she’d be able to braid Lisa’s hair when she was old enough to go to school. And, shit, for all her fire she was so Goddamn patient with ‘em… Taught Frankie to tie his laces even though that kid was stubborn as fuck when he wanted to be… She did fuckin’ everythin’ for ‘em, ‘cause that’s the kinda woman she was, yeah? But she never took no shit from anyone, especially not from me,” he continues, and you feel his longing down to your bones. You _know_ how much he loves her, even now. “And, fuck… yeah. I miss makin’ love to her. Was the best part of fightin’ with her, getting to make up like that. Shit, it was all I thought about on deployment. Y’know, touchin’ her? Bein’ with her? And I miss wakin’ up with her next to me, being able to just roll over and…”

He exhales a long, slow breath.

You reach for the kettle, two-handed, and pour out some water just to distract yourself from his pain.

It’s not your place to comfort him. Not here.

(Guilt starts to gnaw at your stomach again, making acid rise in your throat.)

“But, see, sex ain’t… Sex ain’t what I think about when I think of her, yeah? It ain’t what makes a person, she… she was more than that, y’know? And, look, there ain’t…” You see him shake his head out of the corner of your eye. “There ain’t _rules_ , you don’t… it don’t gotta be the same with everyone, y’know? Just ‘cause it may not look like what you’d call _that_ with one person, don’t mean it ain’t it with someone else, yeah? You don’t get to dictate that shit, Lieberman; you ain’t got a Goddamn clue about it.”

You want to look at him, but you can’t bring yourself to. Not right now.

“So, yeah, you’re right; I miss my wife. I miss… fuck, I miss _everythin’_ about her.” His voice fucking cracks on the word, turning so emotionally exhausted you can’t bear to even _imagine_ how it must feel. “Sex with her was part of that, sure, but… that don’t mean I miss _that_ kinda sex, alright? I can’t. Not like you do.”

“Bullshit,” David argues without heat. “You can’t say all _that_ about her then turn around and say you don’t miss makin-”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Frank interjects in frustration. “Why’s this so Goddamn hard to get?”

“’Cause it don’t make sense!” David protests. “How can you _not_ miss that?”

“Because you can’t miss something you still  _have_ , alright?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” David exclaims, “She’s dead!”

“But _she_ isn’t!” Frank barks, loud and echoing, his finger pointing right at you.

The kettle slips out of your hands and clatters to the floor with a bang.

Their heads suddenly snap in your direction at the sound, like they’ve only just remembered you’re listening, and their mouths open in tandem, ready to speak…

And you?

God help you, you do what you always do.

 

 

You _run._


End file.
